I am sitting in the living room.
No, no... that's not right. The kitchen, then. Yes, the kitchen. I am sitting in the kitchen, and I am drinking tea in the manner with which all troubled people drink tea: with my hands wrapped around the mug the way one would cradle a baby bird that had fallen, head-first, from a tree. And there must be a metaphor there, somewhere, for the ways in which tea-drinking is like living is like falling is like being cradled, but the warmth of the ceramic and the scent of peppermint is too distracting and, at any rate, I'm not much of a thinker and the thought of drinking my tea in the manner with which all troubled people drink tea is causing enough grief as it is. So, I let the steam uncurl under my chin and stare through the window at the magpies in the poplar (all of whom have managed to refrain from falling out of trees) before returning my gaze to the pages spread out on the table, mapping the story of the future of a person I don't yet know and whom I'm very anxious to meet. I hope they drink tea.
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November 2019
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