Morning hours.

It’s a chilly morning outside. A few degrees below freezing point and a clear sky. In the kitchen a radio voice. I feel irritated. Where is the area of silence I long for? I put my earphones on and play a tune of my own selection.

Still another day in quarantine. Voluntary imposed on ourselves to minimize the risk of a premature death. Suppose these coming days are the last few of my living? The question is shouting in my head at high pitch and volume. What do I definitely need to do? Today this issue is hot, The state is gone when it is enough to use my intellect to speculate and prepare. What do I write? Whom do I communicate with? What do I say? What is real? What is imaginary?

My head spins fo a while and settle on giving myself a moment of silence. Complete silence. Even my words settle. The next surface of my diary stays untouched and white. I hold my ink…