dear internet,

unfortunately/inevitably i have The Virus — unpleasant, but thankfully, so far, very mild (i thought it was allergies at first). i have eaten all the snacks i had squirrelled away in my room: raisins, dates, almonds, a pack of after-eights, and dubious, but providential, ginger-flavoured chewing gum. the sun has moved so that it shines directly on the second-storey window of the house across the road, and, from there, casts a long yellow rectangle behind my desk, in which i watch the flutter of a pigeon's wings and the passing of bees, as if in a zoetrope. i write down my symptoms on my notes app, sandwiched between a list of observations on the perfume samples i've been buying ("i smell like an air-conditioned department store from the 00s") and baffling academic notes to self ("invert it!", "voice, history, performance", "the uselessness of love").

i've been picking the flowers that are growing everywhere now that spring is imminent and pressing them in a notebook. snowdrops from the park where i go to bird-watch, daffodils from the bike stand outside my front door. my flatmates call snowdrops "snowbells" and daffodils "tête-à-têtes" (têtes-à-tête?). last night at 2 a.m. in frustrating feverish awakeness, knowing i'd be unable to fall back asleep, i read the latest nymag profile of caroline calloway('s apartment) while outside, through open windows, uncaring of the night, a robin was singing.

love,
t