I've spent 99% of my time in my apartment since the last week in February, and when I do go out I look like a Niqabi with my mask, helmet and long sleeves. There is no idle conversation on the street. My expeditions to the street on my bike are to make an effort to prevent blood clots in my legs, and the resultant Pulmonary Embolisms that I've been warned about. Most Doctors don't talk to me because of my refusal to take their drugs.

Reading material seems scarce with several of my favorite Authors encountering various difficulties. It had not dawned on me that if I wanted to find stories that I liked, perhaps I should read my own. Some of them go back to 2001 and I've forgotten about them. One short story that I just finished re-reading, "Tonight I Wept", by ME, caused me to recall a terribly sad point in my life. I know that most of us have encountered terrible pain and sorrow, and I am sorry. It is clear to me that my experiences do not make me special.

What strikes me are the many comments from those I have not heard from in years. I wonder about them, how they are, and if they have departed this life.

I wish them all, and you the best.

Gwen