The same (story) over and over

Signs of spring, morning pages, and Ishiguro’s mastery

I write to you from a café overlooking a misty Thames river. The weather is terrible today, but somehow I don’t mind. It feels like London putting on a good show, becoming a lovely caricature of itself. And the bitter cold of January seems to be, ever so slightly, dissipating. I saw my first daffodil blooming in a park. A neighbor’s conspicuously dead h…