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Dear Friday,

I listened to something this week that has burrowed deep within me. I don't think I have ever been more moved by a podcast, heard something more tender. I find every word that drops from my lips has more weight, and meaning now. Please, take an hour and listen. Listen until the very end, until the very last word. On Being, Ocean Vuong.

Somehow it's getting hotter. Air so still, and pressing.

Hospitals are full, the virus finally having found its way into the streets of Nairobi. I hear sirens every day and say my quiet prayers. There is no wind to carry them but perhaps they move on wings.

We are staying closer to home, if that is even possible. I worry sometimes I am moving into the walls, fabric stitching itself into legs pressed into cushions and there is no more self outside of our prisons.

I keep drawing faces.


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