I am, at this moment (but not, notably, this moment), writing from a small house in a small place in the middle of Vermont, a smallish state that borders my equally small commonwealth-- but has mountains that (unlike the hulking New Hampshire peaks that sneak up close behind and threaten you lightly for your loose change) stand distant across wide valleys, like kings and queens of wardrobe worlds with considerably more concerns than me, in this small house in this small place with worries much smaller than whatever makes these mountains look quite like *that.*

At the time of writing this note, it was May, it was 77 degrees outside, there was a breeze, and I smelled budding lilac. It was so... much, in such a huge and beautiful way. 

I have come to a realization, which is as follows: I have not been writing this magazine, because with every issue I feel compelled to both maintain the previous issue's style and also, somehow, expand, nautilus-like, into further whimsy. Having done this maintenance, this expansion, I am then confronted with starting the next issue-- and I look down the issue's long dark hall, where every door is one I must open and examine and write out before I can shuffle on to the next. The exit sign will not turn on until every last room has been described in some way that gets closer and closer to the Platonic ideal of parodic microzine excellence, which is rather a lot to expect from basic electrical wiring. 

Strangely, it turns out that my capacity for original words does eventually reach a limit. I've been working on a (very late) chapter for my editor, and the whole of my thought has been turning toward it, even while the weather improves, new people are met, and the housing market turns weird. Things I'd like to spend time noodling out here are instead being transmuted into fiction.