It’s Thursday. Is it Thursday? It IS Thursday. I have lived an entire day in an hour.
I stop to make a cup of tea. I fill the mug with hot water, watch the teabag drift aimlessly, imagine being cwtched on all sides, warm and safe as I float dreamlessly onwards.
When I look up, an entire afternoon has flung itself past my window.
Time is contracted and concertinaed and stretched beyond recognition, all at once.
From between the folds; the song of a blackbird emerges, unfurls. On and on it goes, until it fills the infinite void.
— Ruth Stringer (Cardiff, Wales)
read more Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘The song of a blackbird emerges’