It is 4:48 pm on Saturday and the 68-degree breeze is gently rocking like babies through my kitchen windows, rustling the ivy, carrying with it the delicate dinging of my neighbor’s wind chimes. I can hear the ice-cream man on the next block, the boxy white truck plastered with pictures of bomb-pops, chocolate éclairs, and strawberry shortcake bars, unchanged since 1970, faded by years of the sun’s love. It plays a music-box version of “The Entertainer,” its little notes getting comfortingly and progressively flat with the Doppler effect.

It is spring. And although we’re at fucking war, I can’t help indulging myself in the nostalgic feeling that all is right in the world.

Back to writing the thesis. I know I’ve been scarce for months and months but I’ll write more soon.

Happy spring to everybody. I feel a convalescent newness.