covid, day the 4th

If I had a garret, a drafty, unheated, freezing upper-room sort of garret, I would be writing this there. The sickness is settling in in new ways–I feel I may be coughing by morning. I am too tired. But have done useful things. In spite of it. Not many, but a few. Tomorrow may be a day of nothing. Null and void as though God has turned his face away from the waters of my garret-tomb. Or I may be smiled upon and lay my hand to my spade and turn over entire fields of black earthy loam with one twist of my wrist. Or I may be sent a vision in a fever dream where everything is citrus and velvet and all the houses are castles with swirling turrets. Or I may be cast out into the utter darkness in which case I would never know at bit of it until I come back around again as star dust or feathery little quarks if they let me.