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ravissement.

It’s raining here. It’s raining here, and I am drowning in soon-due papers, which gives escaping into unassigned text an obvious appeal. So much has happened since I last wrote, and so very little, and I am writing more because I miss the commitment than the correspondence.

Since I last wrote I’ve moved. Since I last wrote I’ve started a doctoral program. Since I last wrote I’ve flown too many miles, and wished otherwise. Since I last wrote my hair has dutifully continued to grow and my skin has become imperceptibly more papery and since I last wrote I have become comfortable again wearing glasses. Since I last wrote the Rapture may or may not have occurred.

This must be how life passes, and how, in the end, we die. Sometimes this does seem, really, to be the best of all possible worlds.