Dear child that I was, that has split from my anxiety wracked, grey-shot self and is wondering the hallways of my memories as they slowly distend, split, and crumble into the void between synapses–so dramatic! lockdown!–tell me a story about 2018.
Sir, in 2018 you published a book. Do you remember? Do you remember how excited I am about your book then?
Yes, child, I do believe you. Though the world has changed. That book is an old thing. It does not matter now.
But it matters to me!
Yes, child, I suppose it did. [Blows the dust from laptop. Boots up Stardew Valley. Picks at scabs.]
[Actually, I could use going back to thinking about Utopias.]