everything else

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October 6, 2023

everything else: book of days

dear internet,

it is possible that i only know how to write about myself—and by myself i mean the weather, the neighbours, the child singing happy birthday in the store who turned back from the nailpolish display to smile at my smile. duolingo won’t understand me when i say the name “ed”—mornings with a cup of coffee i lie at an angle that will later make my jaw ache, and say it over and over again to my phone with varying inflections, ed, ed, ed, ed. somebody’s sunflowers are growing old in a vase on the dining table. a toddler leaned out to grab my hand as we crossed the road in different directions. today i dropped a glass bottle and it did not break, and an hour later i dropped it again and it did. the other day we stepped outside and at our feet, right at our gate, was a damp postcard that said “so viel poesie.” it is true that this tinyletter is, like any act of curation, a sustained project of conscious omission—still, among all the other things that have happened, these are things that have happened.

love,
t

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