Dear Matilda,

I’m hoping your lack of a response to my last letter is because you are busy burying your head in books. I know you are not lacking in supply because I saw your huge suitcase full of them before you left. If you are not reading, maybe some incentive is that I secretly left a note in one of those books!

I miss you joining me in being excited and amazed over virtually nothing. I swear everyone around me is a zombie and I’m turning into one too. It took all my strength to not curl back into my cocoon of sheets this morning and sleep the day away.

You’re not missing much here. Except for the bitterly cold temperatures that sting your nostrils and make them stick together, and snot that runs down your lips and chin. Nights out are no different from the ones before that promise fun and let you down with the same booming, soul less techno beats and memories that seem much more exhilarating in the recount of the morning than they ever were in actuality.

Last week Pound said the easiest thing to exercise is your imagination. Have you been exercising yours lately?

May the god of dance smile upon your feet (I stole that),

Harriet

P.s. Harrison says “Hi”

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