In the meantime, our apartment had become my world, and I turned a consequently oversized attention to it, fussing with pillows, rearranging a bookshelf if I felt up to it, spending hours in bed browsing design sites. On other days I spent hours in bed looking at clothes. At the time this made me feel like a fraud. If I could window-shop on the internet, surely I could summon up the willpower to be writing, to be reading. Instead, I’d become someone without an inner life. These hours of aspirational longing, I now more forgivingly think, were a response to the illness. I was trying to manifest
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