Cedar smoke and the Cocteau Twins

Cocteau Twins murmuring on vinyl while rain fingerprints the Edinburgh sash; the humidity hasn't learned how to be subtle. Made black tea with a sliver of cream, lit a cedar stick — the flat smells like an unfinished sentence, the kind that insists on being finished aloud.

A reader sent a brief, impeccable note telling me which moment in the draft felt self-indulgent; it was the best kind of correction, intimate and precise. If you own a copy and can tell me what you'd excise, bring your disagreement over tea — sharp critique is my favorite kind of invitation.