I am about to be ticketed for my poor handwriting. An intimidating soldier walks over and asks to see my note. ‘You should avoid using grid paper,’ he admonishes me. ‘What is your stated reason for leaving your apartment?’
It is a desire to emerge from the depths of withdrawal, I would like to tell him, to escape my growing interiority and to find an implausible freedom from this lockdown. But I offer a more conciliatory response, mostly because he carries a truncheon.
‘To get some exercise and fresh air,’ I offer. ‘The law says that we’re allowed to go out for an hour.’
‘That’s not what you’re doing,’ he replies. ‘Your stated purpose is exercise, but you’re sitting on a bench reading, and don’t write on grid paper next time.’
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