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July 13, 2023

everything else: summer still

dear internet,

at the entrance to the theatre space on the ground floor of our building, a small brown dog came up to me when i said hi. he jumped on me—later i’d find scratch marks on my legs—so i bent down to pet him, and at once he curled up at my side, comfortable, familiar. when his owner appeared she said, laughing, “so you’ve made a new friend?” and i said “yes,” as if she was talking to me. the other day i passed two fallen ice creams: a cup upturned, its contents pressed against the wall, and a waffle cone spilling blue onto the middle of the pedestrian crossing. when i showed my flatmates some photos i’d had printed—a butterfly, a cloudy sky, some birds—one of them said, what i like about these photos is that they’re so typical for you. most days i brush insects off my shoulders; a spider walking across the back of my neck. last week i wrote on my notes app: “the past few days were a haze of constant, mostly low-level pain i couldn’t see out of, like being dropped in a maze, or looking through the coarse black curtains i associate with sleeper trains.” these days have felt like a different kind of blanketing: an endless, imminent dusk, or falling asleep in the passenger seat while the music’s still playing and everyone’s talking. when the heat gave way to summer thunder i opened my windows, and my neighbours on the other side of the street were doing the same, and we all watched each other lean out as far as we could to wait for the rain.

love,
t

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