I had fallen down a rabbit hole into a cold heartless vacuum, in the midst of X-class solar storms hitting Planet Earth.

These sun blasts could, according to digital sources, cause mayhem for seafarers with satellite radar systems, technological meltdowns for the Grid and inspire some collective unity amongst aurora hunters round the Globe.

With a mounting tide of life admin requiring infinite boxes ticking off and an almighty tsunami of self-imposed, great expectations, the morning began with best intentions before the lithium-ion drained psychosis kicked in around noon.

By mid-afternoon, speed scrolling through advertising spam, I had been algorithmically introduced by roughly calculated estimate to five hundred new Internet folk, mainlining creative content: from thirty minutes of therapy in a minute, to what every struggling indie author needs to fear from A.I in the future.

While my phone singed in my left hand, the index scrolling finger on my right hot to the touch, so my neural pathways fried like steak sinews placed in a hot steel pan.

I finally came round from the delirium in the darkness, checking my pulse for a heartbeat, feeling the cold breeze through the nearby bedroom window cracked ajar, dazed and unglued, with one glazed eye on the evening kick-off in the San Siro.