After the flood, I collected postcards, pieces of dry land and squares of sunlight, to string up, along the waterline above my desk, above the mushrooms, sprouting out of the floor. They're not real, these pieces of color, reds and yellows, the black lines of writing, or even the wire, scalloped on the wall. This is an underwater world, swirling with twigs and real tin cans, leaving a line of mud along the foundation, in the plants, up the trunks of trees. Rising. Coming up for air, and saturated with electricity.
Stay safe. All my love,
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