26 October 2011


Slowly I am unsubscribing from every mailing list I have ever signed up to.

Two jumpers and a blanket and I’m still cold.

Eight open documents. Eleven tabs.

Fret not lovely, the leaves are finally turning orange. (Yesterday’s favourite colour.) Time is passing as promised. I worried about you so much when you refused to jump with me into a pile of leaves, or even to kick them about really. Some squirrel-like mischievousness has returned to your eyebrows.

L gave the finger to the stupid indoor joggers, she likes to see her breath.

I am thinking about Anne Carson again, and Sappho, about fragments and distant friends, about all things turning inside out.

Yesterday I was still and good.

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