Dear Reader,
Yesterday it rained and the thunder shook the bedroom door inside its frame. For weeks we have waited on this rain, and now my notebook’s pages are damp and warping. The ink, this morning, it doesn’t quite take—there is moisture in the air that wasn’t there yesterday.
Whenever we are in Zimbabwe the extremes of weather take a toll on my pale body and my books, my notebooks. It’s addictive, in its way; to believe you could not feel any hotter, that the rain could not fall any louder on the roof. Pages shifting more densely—the sound of a winged insect chafing its folded legs.
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