Upon reflection, this year’s National Love Letter Writing Month did not go as well as last year’s inaugural attempt. Certainly this has to do with the circumference of time. I couldn’t possibly have kept up that level of ardor for over a year without interlocution or otherwise alternative energy supplement. Certainly it also has to do with circumstances. I am busier than ever and have been sick two different ways this month. I just got over a common cold this weekend, that about busted my head in two.

The cold is a temperature. That’s all. A mercurial number no different from a blood pressure or a vapor in delusions. If we survive, if we are alive, if we wake up, if we decide to participate, if we leave unhappiness behind for the yaw of curiosity, we have made it doing the only thing I know how to do now, relentlessly think about you.