“There is no greater enjoyment in life than sleep when one is sleepy,” writes Anton Chekhov in a letter. Siesta in lockdown is like that. One reads a little then one is sleepy and the afternoon recedes. Cares go into quarantine, likely to emerge later remote and careless. One may go down deeper than a dream. Day restored has its lists, further liabilities and limits. Lockdown orders its own routines, which seem to include sleeping more. Then comes night again. Never was the city so quiet as during these moon-soft curfew hours. [Sleep], free from the intense outlines of day.
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