Sickness, in my experience, is often unbearably boring. Days full of so much nothing that they all blur together, weeks spent in bed, bad TV shows you don’t remember, stretches of strange, stretchy time that feel like months and minutes at once, staring at the ceiling and listening to your upstairs neighbors fuck, quiet betrayals, unanswered texts, meetings missed with little fanfare, closing your eyes and waiting for a real punishment that never seems to arrive. A year defined by things you forgot to do. No conflict, just lowered expectations.

cruel optimism new year
rayne fisher-quann