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.