The Weight of Thought
Dear Reader,
It is early afternoon but the heaviness of the day is as old as morning, as familiar as rain. I am just getting to work now, just unworking the clacks of my back, just steady with where the keys to my bike are. (In my pocket but where were they when I first looked an hour ago?)
I have come to Amsterdam Noord, as I usually do on Thursday, to drink coffee and work in a cafe that sits in the small square of a 1930’s neighborhood here. The newish brick and old-ish yellow paint of the square look as if Wes Anderson spent five minutes on its design.
By my usual schedule, I am hours and hours behind.
Yesterday’s post is here. I did not send it out to the small group of you subscribing to this newsletter. If that is a transgression against Substack decorum or a breach of contract with any of you, I plead forgiveness. I really cannot say how that post compares to the rest of the things I’ve written thus far, though such comparison serves no one. Invariably, if you like any…
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