And so the day was here. The morning sun had risen up behind clouds, beneath which fell drops of rain. For practical reasons this was somewhat of an annoyance, as it precluded him from wearing what he’d planned to so as to make the impression he’d hoped for. For reasons apart from the practical, the grey weather just didn’t strike as the best of omens, so to speak. Feeling the lesser amount of light and hearing the water he’d imminently be under, he left his bed slowly & without much enthusiasm, the tangled sheets of which pulled him back more than its mattress springs sprung him forth.
        So, it wasn’t ideal from the start. Nevertheless he got dressed & ready to go, looking in the mirror at a large, bedheaded kangaroo covered in a soon-to-be-damp grey rain parka— and one who, moreover, hoped to appear completely normal in the act of delivering a sprawling, pawwritten letter (written two years ago, he’d need mention) to a pretty & famous rooette about maybe half his size. This picture too, he realized, was not entirely ideal.
        But neither was it unforeseen: such being the case, he remembered how when writing the letter, he’d taken pains to make clear how his intentions weren’t roomantic in the least— and not least of all because: she was married to another MC whose rhymes MC K-Roo regarded highly & with great respect. [No less: an unusually high-level of (very) unlikely biographic similarities were shared by both her husbandroo & he: both grew up skateroos, attended the same, tiny music college (where they studied the same instruments, even), and then briefly worked as farmers— all while dropping albums along the way. Statistically, out of all the almost 7,000,000,000 roos on the planet, there were maybe 6 otheroos fitting this description. Because it was such an extremely weird coincidence, he took it upon himself to mention it to her in the letter.] [Moments after penning this mentioning, however, K-Roo realized such an observation could be misconstrued as tantamount to telling a complete strangeroo: “Hey sweetieroo, I’m exactly like your hubbyroo!”, which tended to be a rather unwise and somewhat off-putting thing to say. While he likely probably should’ve left the whole husband coincidence thing out, in his enthusiasm for Future Beats he simply spilled everything out onto paper as if he were writing to a longtime pal, the album having made him feel as though he knew her, like she knew him. Realizing that tens of thousands of the album’s other listeneroos probably felt exactly the same way (the elicitation of such a sensation being one of the hallmarks of great art, anyway) he made mental note to never again— and especially not when in the process of crafting a first impression— to tell anyroo of how he was exactly like his or her spousearoo.]

And so there he stood before his front door, cringing at the recollection of his lack of restraint. The envelope was sealed; what was done was done. Opening it & rewriting the letter, omitting the section in question— and writing it from a plainer psychological space so different from the highly-enthusiastic one which’d originally produced it— was problematic in different ways, mostly pertaining to authenticity & sincerity; a couple of critical things which, if off in any way whatsoever, his readeroo would surely sense.
        “Goddamnit,” mumbled K-Roo with regard to the prolongation of his vacillations… .. . ….  .  …  ..  …. .  …..before then ultimately-albeit-tenuously slipping the envelope back into his pouch & pulling his parka hood over his head. He wasn’t entirely sure that his mind was entirely made up, but he was fairly certain he’d be late if he waited another several moments longer.

§

As it turned out indeed, he was very glad to have arrived on time: once again & exactly like the day before— and yet in a manner completely different— everything she did, every aspect & element of her performance, was right & full & on point. The audience’s applause & ovation was extended & standing; how fortunate they were that an artist such as she was performing in a city such as theirs.

And so now there he was towards the back of a line of a solid contingent of a hundred or so roos, all wielding CDs patiently in paw whilst waiting for their signing, exactly like he— save for exception of his bearing a letter to perhaps leave.
        To avoid seeming too odd, he also brought along two of his own works to give to her— a short EP about 20 minutes long, & a CD with which more time could be spent should she ever so wish. This way, it’d at least be immediately recognizable that he was a confrere emceeroo engaged in the game, and not the likes of a sideline-glued stalkeroo.

(It also somewhere had to be said that he had no idea as to what he wished to come of the transition of his writing into her reading: he just wrote. He was a kangaroo who saw things as he did, and she was a kangaroo who saw things as she did— sometimes their aesthetics were related, most other times not. But their works were both grounded in something similar, and often had to do with how matter, matters, & kangaroos themselves interrelate— as well as the language reflecting as much. A letter seemed in order; it could be discarded if & as the reader wished— the crossing of lives doesn’t have to happen at intersections where the roads are on the same level: sometimes roads cross other roads via bridges, never touching at all; which would also be fine: ships pass in the night everyday. If only because he presently possessed it in his pouch & nothing about now was especially clear: a fog horn seemed in order. Once sounded he’d needn’t have to ever again— if unresponded to his ship would simply sail on, the oceans were big. New ports emptied & filled all the time, quite regularly in fact. Ultimately: whatever was whatever— & the path was the goal.)

Now he was only five or so roos away, and the situation wasn’t the least bit different. In the oddest of ways, he also realized: trust was an issue, as well. Being alive was an issue, too; and while he’d live no matter what he did or didn’t do, he’d be more alive if he acted in a manner which called trust into being in some way. This is also to say: even if a received letter was discarded & no connection made, at the very least a space was being drawn in which two roos could see each other from opposite sides thereof, nod knowingly, & then carry on with their respective independent endeavors.

Whereupon like a flash of lighting in a field of night it occurred to him that his long letter sounding as a foghorn was essentially the written picture of a kangaroo’s proffered nod to anotheroo a ways off in the distance ahead.

By a very strange coincidence occurring at the very moment of his standing in line now just two roos away, Platy poked out from his pouch wielding his laptop to relate the following news: “K-Roo! You’re not going to believe this!” Pointing to a just-received email from one of their old friends, Platy exclaimed & explained “Dude! Look at this! Peteroo goofed with his annual studio email and accidentally put everyroo’s personal email address in the ‘To:’ box,, instead of bccing all the recipients!”
        And there it was, staring up at him from down below: just a few inches beneath his own personal email address was that of MC Yolandajoon’s. It was a pretty strange coincidence, sufficiently such so as to definitively check his vacillations regarding delivery. He had no idea that his old pal Peteroo was friends with her, but now that he did: he sighed a sigh of relief in recognition of the following assurance felt: if on the off-chance his letter was misconstrued as being anything other than a knowing nod, his friend & former roommate Peteroo could vouch for K-Roo’s normalcy, kindness & sincere intentions, as well as goodness & reasonableness generally, if ever so asked. Things were in the balance again. [He then deleted the email immediately after reading it, imagining that that’s what everyroo on the accidentally-exposed list would want for all of the other recipientroos to do.]

Now at the signing desk where sat the esteemed emceeroo, K-Roo had handed to her his own purchased copy of Future Beats, requesting that it be signed “For K-Roo & Platy.” Upon her signing it such & handing it back to him, he handed to her his CD & EP & the letter, mentioning he’d written it a couple years back after first having heard her album. “That’s weird,” she said. He had to admit (and Platy would later corroborate) it was a somewhat awkward exchange.
        However, now it was done. This was good because now it couldn’t be thought of again. This in itself was extremely good, because now he could more-focusedly get back to the never-finished task of composing & propounding his own lyrics & beats, ultimately arranging them into a forthcoming album. It was good to get back to work whilst under the spell of having been inspired by anotheroo’s creative oeuvre; it was a privilege to be able to do so whilst said roo was still in the steady process of reaching the height of her powers, essentially guaranteeing decades of future inspiration anon.