i'm writing from the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by papers & books & art supplies. i am moving house this week, and deep within the long slow process of sorting and boxing and collapsing, condensing my life down into simple, moveable blocks.
and i came across a letter to my oldest friend, j., started and unfinished more than two years ago. always easily distracted, i let my eye glance across the page; it rested on a particular passage, and i stopped still and stared. the way that these things find us, exactly when we need them.
( the letter is dated wednesday 6 february, 2008. )