The more clarity I have about the writing to be done, the deeper I find myself in piles of books, film, music, art, recipes, physics formulas, globes from various eras, interlibrary loan emails, browser tabs, magazine adverts from British newspapers circa 1870s, lighters, and cashmere socks. Research and nesting have blurred together; I am the watercolor procrastinator potato. I’ve been thinking of Sylvia often. She used to be poetic kin. Today there are reels, corporate analytics, botox, and the right pair of wide leg denim. Now I realize I’ve lived past her few years. The pools of open pages in the guest bedroom would have been a thrill to her.
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