Sometimes, when I haven’t written in a long time, I peer at my laptop screen or notebook as if I have come from an unimaginably distant country, squinting at the page as if it is a horizon in which one might sight home.

Anyways I have spent the last 10 minutes not doing anything, not anything discernibly useful, just watching the clouds whisk across the sky through the window where earlier a small tortoiseshell butterfly had fluttered and beat against the glass in the effort to get out. Ah, there, it has escaped, a dark flash of wings in the changeable light.

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