Before this era of isolation, I was in the habit of playing basketball once or twice a week with a group of creative writing friends at Florida State. I am the last pick, not particularly athletic, with basketball skills long stunted by a hesitance to play after my younger brother outgrew me.

The world attempts to work, homeschool their kids, and day-drink responsibly – and yet they still have time for hobbies, it seems.

The word mews is actually a singular noun, and refers to a row of old stables made or converted into apartments, particularly on a side street in a city full of busier streets.

But I’m tired, and I barely know what day it is, so let’s keep it short: Our reality is bad. Why not spend some time in an absurd, wholesome alternate universe?

At the end of April, I stumbled upon fiber artist Yrúarí’s fanciful work reclaiming old sweaters with audacious red lips sprouting out from everywhere and pointed tongues snaking beyond imagination.