we’ve learned the quickest route from lock screen to Twitter feed, absorbed a vocabulary relayed in 280 characters—stan, bias, comeback, debut. Archivists, we’ve created mythologies, a fan-and-artist collaboration. We speak a language of synth and snare and sample, songs storied in words from both sides of the Pacific. Look at our monetized youth, identity exploited for art. We didn’t always know each other, but thank fucking god we figured that one out. Trace our relationship from the first time we clicked a YouTube link to the time we stood outside a venue in the Dallas heat, sweat dripping down our necks and light-up signs cradled under our arms. The time we forked out hundreds for a ticket, or the time we drove five hours just to watch you dance as we sat two sections back from the front row, slightly to the left. Hold our hands when we come through the high-touch line; under the raining confetti, say let me hear you scream. We ask ourselves, what to call this thing—is it obsession? Is it love? If we met, we know it could only be for an instant, and our mouth muscles, shaped differently, would contort each other’s names. We would have to twist our tongues, soften the ridge behind our teeth, push breath out in a form that would reach the other, a syntax to take us from we to me—to you.