He’s most a runner who has won the race.
The Category, Lytton Strachey
It’s supposed to be May, yet with two degrees outside
and fifteen in my study, it feels like December. But who cares
about mismatched months when the years are also mixed up—
for now I’m stuck in nineteen-oh-five, mostly because it’s hard to be a person
when you’re reduced to a book of letters with a somewhat blurry picture
that was never intended for a cover.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 