The little cafe across the street (one of the only ones on our block that’s not a chain) has died, after 20 years in business. Their loyal customers came all summer and fall, but it wasn’t enough to help them make it through this wretched pandemic. I feel so sad for them

We got lucky because we had just been looking out the window and were sitting up against the radiator, talking and trying to get warm when we heard the hooves. It’s a distinct sound that always makes us leap up and run to the window, but now we were already there.

I opened the window and leaned out, yelling down at them: I love you!

I love stories, late at night
in a warm and comfortable bed or
while sitting in my window with the sun on my face.

I don’t write in English very often
but occasionally I do.
It’s an experience similar to looking at something
through someone else’s eye.
There are no words I can spit out without
second thought, no conventions to build on:
I have to carefully consider what I want
to say and test the meaning of each word, separately and in
different contexts to see if it’ll suit my purposes.
I have to look at something as thought it is
new and figure out
again what it means to me.

Pictures are stories I haven’t
written down and games
are stories you can play with.