Welcome back, dear friend: I have missed your doomsday predictions, your crisp, dry spells of migratory quiet. I still have your last letter, warning that there is barely any trace of almonds in almond milk; and that you have managed to build a small cob house. My daughter says her workmate has a miniature herbarium on his desk where he grows basil and rosemary. Do plants know the subtle differences among the kinds of warmth they aspire to? The world is still always trying to become, aided now too with LED lights. Wasn’t it just yesterday we thought Y2K would make time turn upon itself? But we are also infinitely foolish to think that neither the sun nor the wind could die.


In response to Via Negativa: Lull.

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