This morning I find myself sitting to the right of a wall consisting primarily of bamboo stalks, although there is also an astonishingly large and successful avocado plant directly behind me, all twisted and up-looking. I say that 'I find myself' here, because I think it's probably the first time in two weeks that I have been able to really, with feeling, locate myself—the last two handfuls of days have felt, more or less or more, like this piece of letter written by the composer Tchaikovsky in the spring of 1870:
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No.90
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This morning I find myself sitting to the right of a wall consisting primarily of bamboo stalks, although there is also an astonishingly large and successful avocado plant directly behind me, all twisted and up-looking. I say that 'I find myself' here, because I think it's probably the first time in two weeks that I have been able to really, with feeling, locate myself—the last two handfuls of days have felt, more or less or more, like this piece of letter written by the composer Tchaikovsky in the spring of 1870: