Outside my window was a bustling roundabout, connected to a promenade by an artificial canal which accommodated an abundance of white, sumptuous yachts. Palm trees dotting the promenade were delicately wrapped in glittering rope lights snaking up their slender trunks, whose warm, cheerful colour fell gently on the shoulders of pedestrians taking an evening stroll. This vibrancy ground to an abrupt halt as the fear of a novel virus loomed over the city, like gathering clouds on the horizon. Devoid of cabs, the empty roundabout is now desolate with a few bleakly lit palm trees. The red glow of rear lights of motorbikes cuts through the deadly quiet as delivery drivers flash down the street. I lost track of how many days I have been in solitary confinement. To my surprise, I made peace with it fairly quickly, after coming to the realisation that this was my chance to kick off the things on my to-do list that I had been procrastinating over. The internal struggle I feel has nothing to do with the quarantine but everything to do with the problem that has been lurking in the shadows for a long while. Since my window is my only connection with the outside world, I spend most of my day by its side. Every afternoon, a fit, bald man in a face mask would come out and walk his two dogs. The two dogs are apparently not coordinated, dragging the man back and forth on the pavement, and sometimes into the bush. A welcome, lively scene which spices up this time of spiritlessness.