You need to get in more.

Thank you for the invitations,
but I haven't time to go out
and see pop-up restaurants
and exhibitions and shows
just at the moment.
I'm concentrating on inside.
After all, if old Marcel
could write all that from bed,
imagine what I might achieve
by staying here indoors.
Lonely? Don't be mad!
I make my own society.
There is enough life here in my room.
In fact, I have a stain on the wall,
Beaujolais spill and soot, I think,
and I've been staring intently at it
until I can see a little fellow there.
He has a touch of the Cossack about him,
stern, with a twinkle hint of humour,
like the Eggman in that old hedgehog game.
We have a fine old time together –
Persikov (that's his name) regales
and we drink wine with hearty toasts,
and listen to Dvořák records,
sharing the instruments between us.
Bristly Persikov even knows
a few rather bawdy jokes,
although he often loses
the punchline in the telling.

You need to get in more.

You wouldn't believe
what fine evenings we have,
him up there on his wall,
and me all wrapped up in rugs.
Who knew you could find
such riches and delights
in a pokey studio flat?