There is a particular hush before the kettle sings — a small kingdom of patience where thought arrives unbothered. In this issue we wander into that quiet, and ask what writing might still owe to it.
On keeping a notebook by the window, and the strange courtesy of light when it returns each morning to the same page.
We rent the world for a while. Notes on tending a balcony of borrowed rosemary and the patience it asks for in return.
A small defence of the spoken sentence — and what we lose when language stays politely behind the teeth.
“We do not write to be understood;— Marginalia, from a misplaced notebook
we write to understand.”