I am thinking about how time has changed. When I was working, it was sectioned into neatly defined, separately identified bits. I knew the shape and size of 7:30 Tuesday morning, and where it fit into my day, my week, my life. Every minute interlocked with all the minutes surrounding it like distinct pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I recognized ten AM without looking at a clock. My body could feel when it was 3:15. Every day was distinct and unique. And colors - blue Monday, gray Wednesday, Carnival-colored Friday at five, drowsy brown Sunday afternoons in winter, every day and time had it’s own distinct hue and texture. Thursday was nothing like Wednesday, and Saturday was not just a different animal, but an entirely different species. But since Covid, time has become amorphous; a pale beige, elastic blob like well-kneaded bread dough. Morning stretches seamlessly into afternoon and I’m still in my bathrobe. The days of the week are not Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. I
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