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June 23, 2024

everything else: june day

dear internet,

my flatmate says, i don’t want to become the kind of person who always talks about the weather. she says this without weight or malice: we both know i am this kind of person, really. we’re painting our dining room, and later in the day i will start my period and think of a schoolfriend who used to say, when she was on her period, “the painters are in.” as i tape the windowframes in preparation, two spiders—one big, one small—appear from the cracks. i rescue them with a glass and a piece of cardboard i had to fish out of our paper bin, and place them outside two different windows. i like looking at the paint in the can, thick like porridge, opaque like fevicol. the sun is hot on our faces and the paint spatters across our hands and feet. afterwards, we wash the rollers in the bathtub and see the runoff like milk, and my flatmate says, tonight we can bathe like cleopatra. when we put the plants back on the windowsills i can’t remember where everything is supposed to go, and i feel disoriented and unobservant. the next day i wake late, dizzy from oversleep and/or ibuprofen, and lie in my bed drinking lukewarm coffee. in another room the walls are clean and white. 

love,
t

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