getting through, they’re tiny malevolent meteorites against the motes of dust big as planets. My mask is for sanding, stripping down the construction timber I got for a tenner from the recycling shop. I’m shelving the study, making way for a second desk. The house is our ice station now, last fortress against the blizzard biting. I gaze out, wondering when the all-clear will sound. It could be Sep before the schools go back, could be later. I feel shoved online more than ever, yearn for the physical world. But the physical world is hostile, confinement means we must travel in the mind for a while. I’ve laid in my stores. I have millions of pages stockpiled, The Anatomy of Melancholy and The Golden Bough can take opening bat.
