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I imagine that the entire spring will be taken up with quarantine — a spring almost wasted, almost won; I can’t tell which. Spared the worst, so far, I wonder why I feel self-pity, and at times, lethargy. Have I become so soft, and so modern, so much a creature of Google and Amazon and Tinder — of automation — that I can’t revel like my existence in a pig in the mud? Sometimes I fall into meep, or somewhat deep, meditative states and I think, ‘why can’t I spend all day like this? In this depth? Why do I swim for the shallow water above me where I can easily fall prey to the lure of the fisherman?’
