Since midweek, I’ve been waylaid by a stubborn head cold. Such episodes are rare for me—thanks, I like to think, to a set of daily habits centred on diet, exercise and meditation. At times, foolhardily, I fancy myself immune to the usual ailments. Yet here I am, unmistakably human, carried by a body whose resilience has given way to what now seems to be a chest infection.

I’d scheduled a Monograph edition this week. These are Tokyothèque’s most substantial works, and by the time I sit down to write one, the topic will have lived with me for some time through observation, photographs, and research—sometimes gathered over years. But the weekly cadence of the newsletter means all of this must surface and take written form within just seven days. This publication, after all, keeps no stockpile.

Monograph weeks typically require a deep well of focus, discipline, and energy. This time, though, I’m compelled to heed the same advice I so often give: when illness first stirs, rest early or risk prolonging it. For those wired toward productivity, pushing through tends to result in a net loss overall. As a compulsive striver, my own counsel rings a little glib right now—yet it holds. August’s Monograph will be released once I’ve returned to full strength.

Nevertheless, a pause imposed by illness isn’t without its uses. Some of my foundational thoughts on publishing first emerged during a dual bout of tendonitis and COVID-19, which kept me from my desk job. Remembering that, I’ve taken advantage of this forced slowdown and, from the temporary base of my settee and coffee table, begun lightly sketching out something that’s been on my mind for a while: the cataloguing of Tokyothèque.