Very misanthropic lady novelists

Each interhemispheric flight I take is worse than the last. The flights themselves are fine, if extraordinarily wasteful. They are luxury, even (the Asian vegetarian meals resemble, these days, meals from mid-range south asian restaurants in Melbourne, which I’d happily live off). But my body, decrepit old thing, suffers more. My little elephant ankles fill with blood. The ‘very fine’ lines beneath my eyes reveal themselves to be cracked up gorges. I don’t poo for days afterwards, and then I can’t poo enough. Worse: my jetlag lasts a full week, throwing time and space into a conceptual jumble, proving what Einstein said, that ‘time and space are modes by which we think and not conditions in which we live.’ Which is my excuse for not having no great insights this week in this letter; no messages or revelations from daily life. My consciousness is shattered and discontinuous. Space is purely conceptual. (Time? Fantasmic.)

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