sent from: London, UK. destination: Wellington, New Zealand

The tape clicked, there was faint increase in noise as the tape wound onto the head, and “Red Rain” started playing. Jorge didn’t react, keeping his eyes on the road. “How many times?” asked Ruth drowsily from the back of the car. Felix and Rosana had argued the night before and weren’t talking. Jorge didn’t worry, it was too warm for anyone to engage, he knew that in the cool after sunset and over a bottle of wine, it would get better. “Sledgehammer”, “Don’t Give Up”, the album played on; someone sang to “Mercy Street” and they all sang the chorus of “In Your Eyes”, falling quiet for “This Is The Picture”. The tape ended, clicked, reversed, and “Bladerunner” started. Rosana tried to eject the tape, but they all knew it wouldn’t budge. It was so hot that the cassette had expanded in the deck and was wedged fast. That was three days ago. By now they knew every track, every nuance, every minute warp of the tape. The road, the summer, was an endless loop of the familiar, the frustrating, the sublime, the infinite. The only argument they couldn’t have on this road trip was what music to play.