I know: not a sole representative of twelve trying months and months of trying. It is tempting to concede the shame has brought me here. But truth being what it is— This will no longer be a home for housekeeping. Theref., as you can plainly, the above is the final on the matter, more not to follow, not even where prefaced by anticipatory I knows. I shan’t even mention, even here, my no-longer contemporaries but one, as I have been no-longer, too, for long enough. That being said — if that counts as being said —, I would like to say, briefly, and with full knowledge of the resultant failures of every of its predecessors, that this sentence marks a henceforth of effort, if not (probably) profusion. And with that last of the keeping done, I’ll commence.
Firstly, no secondly, to the business of the day, of what happened within it. I was startled awake for the fifth consecutive time by birds in my loft. My only measure of defense against the recent heat wave had been to keep my windows up overnight. And now they were perched around the bowl that housed my breakfast, and bathing gaily in my coffee. It proved an appetite-sapping sensation of feathers, bird blobs and mysterious gluten-substitute, and I ditched at least half of it in favour of a dozen singles and a hastily whisked nog. My day looked up from there, at a sky with gouacher colours than I was used to.
I had walked over three kilometres, nearly five, to an ailing sibling, the dual victim of weather and parental conspiracy. It was nearing dark when I saw the gate. The company upon arrival was agreeably ingenuous, allowing me sufficient space to tend to the bedside. I thanked them each and together. Over the next four hours I wrote twenty-six letters on borrowed stationery. Completing the last one (Z), I folded up my piece of paper and failed to contain my pride.
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