Dear Friends,

I'm sorry for not writing sooner.

I suddenly found myself several thousand feet under a volcano in Iceland and we were running low on water.

My nails grew to a point where I couldn't type properly. I had the hiccups, very distracting ones. I was at odds with myself.

I was too busy dreaming of things to do with my hair. (Like this. Or this. Or these.)

I decided that the written word, like the novel, is dead. I had visitor: a clairvoyant visitor. I couldn't be bothered.

I left my hands in San Francisco. Or El Segundo.

Gary Cooper is in town.

I hope you understand.

Sincerely,
a cup of tea