becomes a way to claim a small piece of yourself back from the virus. Some call this "coronasomnia"
It is now 6 AM. The sun is starting to bleed through the curtains. The fever hasn't broken, but it has retreated enough that I am no longer hallucinating about spreadsheets.
Writing during a fever dream is an exercise in surrealism. Thoughts don’t arrive in a straight line; they arrive in fragments. I’ve spent the last hour wondering if the delivery driver who dropped off my contactless soup realizes he’s a literal hero, and then immediately pivoted to worrying about an email I forgot to send in 2019. The Isolation of the Hour
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becomes a way to claim a small piece of yourself back from the virus. Some call this "coronasomnia"
It is now 6 AM. The sun is starting to bleed through the curtains. The fever hasn't broken, but it has retreated enough that I am no longer hallucinating about spreadsheets.
Writing during a fever dream is an exercise in surrealism. Thoughts don’t arrive in a straight line; they arrive in fragments. I’ve spent the last hour wondering if the delivery driver who dropped off my contactless soup realizes he’s a literal hero, and then immediately pivoted to worrying about an email I forgot to send in 2019. The Isolation of the Hour
