I've been putting more effort than normal put into the burying of thinking that will slow me down, wear me out—convincing myself of the shouldn’t-listen-to-that, shouldn't-read-those. Yesterday, I found myself too exhausted to be concerned or anxious about any of it any longer. The whole world alone, then not alone, alone, then not alone again, for what I'm sure will seem a very long time. The last week or so every small and pointless solitude has felt so terribly necessary, which is a bizarre thing when it's as if nobody anywhere is together. I’ve noticed more how it looks, how it feels, that slight and particular pressure that can usually be found when surrounded by others. Usually, I say, because there are times when it’s possible to be alone-and-yet-not.