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Homebound, like suspects under house arrest, forbidden callers, spending months alone, enforced seclusion saps our hope and zest, like shackled captives, merely lying prone. The artists in despair I urge to view the current deadlock as a heaven-sent boon, as hustle, parties, trysts, we must eschew, for focused work, the times are opportune. We moaned that guests, and calls we had to pay derailed our art’s ascent to the sublime the idyll craved, and missed to our dismay, was loneness to create, so now’s the time. Despite the blights of hunger, debts and fear, espy a silver streak in Covid’s cloud, arresting, lasting items to appear, attesting talent troubled but uncowed.