It feels sinister to send a warm reminder of tomatoes from where I sit, perched in New York, typing on a snow day. Years have passed since I have thought of this corner of the internet, or the internet at all. It has been easy to slip away.
I have been reading Middlemarch. There were two weeks during which I viewed Now, Voyager (1942, Irving Rapper) three times. I swallow one pill in the morning and one at night, after many years where I could not swallow a pill at all. My mouth darkens against the thought of poetry. And this morning, the snow was so soft under my boot steps, I wanted to walk forever.