For the past month and a half I have been listless and ill-tempered, struggling to get out of bed in the morning. I haven’t wanted to write. I haven’t wanted to leave the apartment, to do much of anything. Dust accumulated in layers, enveloping pictures and knick-knacks like future fossils, insects frozen in amber. Bedsheets remained at the foot of the bed like tangled ghosts. Everything just seemed like so much effort.
On Sunday, I finally finished the poorly-written book I’ve been reading for the past month and a half.