Where to begin.
I am mentally in a semi-fetal position, imagining myself under the covers, safe and dreaming. Turning off the news, shrinking away from Facebook, looking into the dense, mostly-green tangle that is my unkempt garden, I want nothing more than to become a small insect that creeps or flutters along its inevitable way, mostly looking for something to eat. I am too old for other urges, children have grown and flown.
If I move now I can get outside before the day has burned through the morning gloom. But that involves moving, and I am totally volition-less. I have spent most of the last two days in my shapeless, old, gray sweatshirt-robe, except for some town errands, and putting on work shirt and jeans to help put down the two ewes last night. That includes feeding animals. That includes checking on chickens. That includes meals (such as they have been) and evenings in front of the TV. But no more news. I can not watch news any more.