Fot two to three months every year, I am bedridden. Hours go by and I hardly move. My bed becomes an island where only essential visitors—a poetry book, some medicines and my phone—are allowed. What would you do if you were stranded on an island? I read a little, and listen to some music. My only connection to the outside world is my phone. Without the phone and a working internet connection on it, I might just drift away, taking along the island with me, deep into the sea. You lose sense of time when you are chronically ill.
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