Isolation express! Leaving on track... wait - we're going nowhere.
What do theologians call a life without events? The lights of my prison-like room dawn before sun's first blush. I open sand-papery eyes as my AI announces the morning. I begin the puppetry of morning routines: I study my pale inmate face as I polish the porcelain. I look less of a drowsy-angel than a zombie as I splash cold water on the face with an almost determined lack of expression. I’m absorbed in an ocean of predawn cold as I 5-mile-walk away my sleepiness - this small freedom - keeps me fit and acceptably sane. Later, bathed in hot indifference, and clothed in exhausting obligations, I dine, at my reserved table, with my gang of irritations. Soon I’m ready for another taxing day of waiting for the disease to run its course.
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