From the desk of Const

A Thursday in March, later than it should have been.

I have meant to write since the garden went over. The paper yellowed in the drawer while I waited for a better sentence. There is none. There is only this: I am still here, the ink has gone a little brown, and I hope you are well.

If you came for work, it is the quiet kind. If you came with a letter, I will keep it.

Yours faithfully,
Const