dear internet,

i started this tinyletter in february 2020, and since then i have written to you eighty-eight times: often from a room or house in which i was alone. it feels surreal to read back some of these letters, like this one from march 2020 or this one from may or this from a different house in september, but i'm glad i have them here, neat time-capsules of the new and complicated ways we learned to be sad and anxious and alive in this world. it's december now, an unmooring sort of month that will fly by before i've had the chance to process how i feel about it. i've made my annual christmas playlist, finally turned on my heating, and returned to my sacrilegious winter dinners of tortellini dipped in sriracha. the sky is the same relentless grey all day, but maybe tomorrow it will snow.

love,
t