We are counting the dead bodies in the comfort of our homes. We distract ourselves with simple arts & crafts projects. We cut and glue. We draw with beewax crayons. We discover multiple new ways to use cardboard, which leaves us with a surprisingly satisfying sensation. We take photographs of watermelons in bowls. We put on masks and gloves to venture outside, looking for perfectly ripe avocados. We let guacamole deceive us, luring us to believe everything is normal. We develop unique quirks and jargons, only understood within our specific confinement. We observe how each other’s hair grows longer, and more unpredictable. We are morphing into our true messy, incoherent selves. There is a sense of despair we numb with irony and well chilled rosé. Our children have migrated to the safety of distant online lands, while we sit in colorful pajamases, binge watching press conferences where deaths and new cases are numbers presented as math homework for kindergarteners. We eat piña colada flavored ice cream straight out of the bucket, oblivious to which day of the week it is. We keep up appearances by posting on social media; Camus and Saramago book covers, videos of parrots playing peekaboo with cats, and cute, staged pictures of our homeschooled kids, accompanied by carefully constructed captions. With so much spare time, we are realizing who we really are, and it’s terrifying. Our own breathing and heartbeats are keeping us up at night. In the dark we’re feeling vulnerable, searching for signs that the silent killer virus has finally come for us.