I hope this letter finds you in a place where the wind whispers the verses of your music through the trees. Your songs are like living things, breathing with strange rhythms and undulating waves, taking me to a place that exists only in the imagination—a place where I can stand at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a sea of turmoil that churns with deep seaweed, and hear the strange cry of angry taxidermy giraffes parading through the streets of a forgotten town. It is a place where the world is simultaneously too much and not enough. But there, amid the chaos, your music provides a strange kind of solace. It shakes like ice cream in the back of a car driven by Lady Macbeth herself—where fate is sweet, but always tragic, and the music dances like it knows it’s both the question and the answer.

Robert. I don’t know how to explain the moments when the world feels like it’s crumbling under my feet, and I can’t find a way to hold onto anything that feels real. But when I hear your music, something changes. The dissonance of your songs calms the storm in my mind, the way a thunderstorm can suddenly give way to a surreal quiet. Your songs feel like stepping into a Kabuki play where sushi shrimp are devoured by Mary Mother of Jesus as she contemplates her role in the universe—strange, unsettling, yet somehow true. There’s something sacred in this space you’ve created, this place where I can scream and then whisper, where pain is both a color and a sound, and where joy and despair never truly separate.

You, Robert Smith, dance better than the Minotaur’s spares at a midnight feast. A Forest is not just a song, it’s an entire world that opens up in front of you, like stepping into a swirling vortex of swirling colors, where every note is a new tree, every pause a breath before the next twist in the labyrinth.

There’s something uniquely strange about your music—like a strange melody rising out of the belly of a beast, or a haunted carousel spinning endlessly down the Great Wall of China. And in that endless turning, I find a strange kind of peace. It’s a peace like a scream that gets stuck in your throat but transforms into something beautiful in the process.

I don’t know what to say except, thank you. Thank you for the soundtracks to my darkest days and my brightest moments on the other side.

If it’s not too much trouble, I would be beyond grateful to receive an autographed photo from you. But more than that, I just wanted to express how much your music has been a strange companion—a companion that understands without needing to speak, that shows up like an unexpected apparition, both strange and necessary. I can’t begin to imagine how it must feel to be a creator of such beauty, but I am so incredibly thankful that you’ve shared your gift with the world.

With deep admiration and respect,

Priscilla