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I sat in the park, Søndermarken, south field, with my Italian friend today. The sun was hot and we walked a little first before finding a bench that faced towards the sun.

We’ve known each other since we were twenty-somethings. We’ve worked together, travelled Europe together, drunk coffee in Singapore, visited each other’s families, argued like hell, screamed at each other and with other people, laughed and cried for almost an entire lifetime. She can get away with stuff that no-one else can get away with.

She’s had a death in the family, Firenze is shut down.

Photo by Kai Pilger on Unsplash

We sat in the sun for hours talking then walked a little.

Photo by Alfred Kenneally on Unsplash

I’ve been unemployed before so being at home a lot is familiar to me.

I only sewed one pair of day-of-the-dead panties yesterday but I had thousands of projects planned. This catastrophe had catapulted me into a devastating depression. With no sewing machine my life seems purposeless.

I’ve cleaned all the places down below around the needle but I suspect the problem is with the gears.

So sad. Or maybe I’m just hanging my Coronasorrow onto this one event.

The weather is dark and overcast. I’ve washed two loads of washing and hung them out. I gotta remember to bring it in before tomorrow when gales are forecast. I managed to start both machines before going to the supermarket to get black plastic sacks and earth for plants, neither of which they had in the supermarket. We have a private laundry in the cellar, a few doors down. In the old days, washing machines were discouraged in apartments but now people are beginning to get them.

I like to hang out my clothes to dry. We have a few clothes lines in our yard. Photo by Jason Briscoe on Unsplash

When I woke up this morning my oldest son was asleep on the sofa, having moved out from his dad (again).

Photo by Luca Dugaro on Unsplash

He recommended El Hoyo (The Platform) so we watched it together at lunchtime. I didn’t even realize it was dubbed in English — I was so busy reading the Danish subtitles.

I feel so exhausted all of a sudden.

I want to write so much; I often read articles that echo what I am feeling but I am unable to express myself in the way that I want.

I have written thousands of articles on Medium and have rarely written about what I really care about.

I have wandered vaguely around the point but never dived in.

My ideas might lend themselves better to fiction or an allegory like The Platform.