the woken body a beached artefact of last nights cleansers. remains of mascara in the corner of the eyes, lids off the nightcaps bottles opening.

         11 steps ahead

                 1 get up

                 2 shower

                 3 get dressed

                 4 tying the hair up, rarely brushing

                 5 moisturiser

                 6 concealer

                 7 mascara, maybe something more fun?

                 8 blush if you feel fancy

                 9 deodorant, perfume if someone is waiting?

               10 shoes

               11 jacket with hopefully pre-packed pockets or that’s a whole other list

there is no one waiting today because you said you were staying in.

      -10

              -11

                    for 9 days

an avalanche of snacks hiding the essentials. you might as well start with comfort food not porridge. you even got some of those snacks you remembered other people having as their regulars. you always had a comfort-epiphany when having these snacks at a friends place, thinking about the fact that on their usual labs through the local store they chose this random treat. you would never lay your eyes on it. now it’s good that it’s there. like you invited yourself to your own place and open an unfamiliar cupboard.

          -7

                          -9

you could go out maybe. you know you really just shouldn’t. how hard can it be to spend your time at home? a walk would still be fine. or do they track your phone? you should switch it off anyway.

       -4

                           -6

you shouldn’t leave the door so embrace the decisions that are taken for you. inhale by the open window. exhale in your tea. steam your face. all those things you’ll finally do.

                 8 more days

you should video call your friend today, but your head will be sufficient.

           -3

                            and 7 days

you could call your boyfriend to make plans. something to put in sight. going shopping for it in your head. you ran out of pasta, should’ve thought of that. it’s still a week and your flatmates are out.

    -2

                  -5

time starts to confront you with its presence. you could be a treat to yourself and get down a routine. all those steps. they feel heavy as they weigh on you in the morning. your back hurts but the legs became lazy too. a workout would be really good right now but it might be more worth it when you can go out again. less than a week,

                6 days

it’s absurd how you use all those tiny bottles with a different mix of ingredients for different
parts of the same body. all those x’s, y’s, z’s can hardly be natural, although they must be because what else is there? it’s probably a good time to see how your skin does without all these.

                   5 days sounds fine

you thoroughly brush your teeth. it’s your most sacred self-treatment now. circling over the little off white stones like conjuring a spirit. a sharp spit and you go back to your room

               -1

     4 days you could count down

but you are not missing the park, by far not the parties anymore. walking for a bit would be nice. you probably could but you fully evolved to inside-you now. nostalgic about the nostalgia of outside-you that was nostalgic about office-you who was nostalgic about nightout-you

            3 days

no milk.

you’re having your coffee irish. does irish ice-cream suffice as breakfast?

new rituals baby.

it’s a temporary absurdity, a temporary state, temporarily bound to the bed. you’ll be all peachy again soon bathed and pampered. at the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman…‘ (Albert Camus)

you are deeply human now.

              (+2) ?

you read 3 of the 384 pages you thought were a great way to keep yourself occupied. that’s okay it’s a collective hibernation. they would be proud by how well you are doing your job. you stinky, half-dressed greasy slob of yourself.

             2 days on the clock

you neutralised your routine to the bare minimum of your physical state.

you, single inhabitant of your Locuscene.

your mum sent you masks for outdoors,

not realising she really sent a time capsule for tomorrow?

the weather is not even that great. it would be wasteful to even use the little bottles and strange utensils to clean and wrap your body up, to resist the rain and cold and other peoples noses. the rebellion against this epoch of your body will kick off another day.

sharp spit and back to bed.