When our isolation started in mid-march, I couldn’t listen to podcasts at all. I was decentered and the days were too surreal. I played Fiona Apple and Waxahatchee and all my dad’s old favorite songs and my own old favorite teenage emo songs on repeat when I ran two and a half miles on my new running route, zig-zagging across the streets to avoid being near anyone, trying to find a way to escape my worried, racing mind. The pockets of time where I used to listen to podcasts, alone in my house doing chores, in the car on the way to pick up kids or do errands, running on my old busier, crowded trail, had all been suddenly shut down. I had no interest in listening to any voice recorded before March 12.  That was another epoch, another era, a foreign country where I didn’t understand the language anymore.