Tuesday, 24th of February 2026. 15:06. It is a deceptively sunny afternoon and I am tucked under a mountain of blankets on the sofa in a fleece pullover, having been properly leveled by six days of being very, very ill with some new Andalusian strain of influenza they call K1. My dream of Andalusia was so bright and color-saturated, a lightness that was much anticipated after I finished my manuscript. I haven’t the stamina to record just how terrible the trip actually was, so instead I will focus on the plumbers who are here today and tomorrow and the day after, informing me that I am forbidden from using the water between 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. I was stunned by the request, wondering how they expect me not to flush the toilet while I am drinking endless pots of tea and chicken soup just to stay upright. Then my book arrived, and even though I wasn’t looking for him at all, Proust has somehow found me; I felt this strange calling to read the first volume, In Search of Lost Time: Swann’s Way. So here I am, eyes heavy and back aching with a joy level that is currently subterranean, and while I am not at all my best self and everything feels messed up, I am still going to lie here, be a tea pot head, and read Proust dipping a madeleine in his tea. ☕️