Among the books I have read lately are a few about people who are bedridden. One of them was about a woman who was mysteriously ill, another about one who merely wanted attention, and a third about a man who lay dying, looking back on his life.
All of the people in these books spun a rich life inside their heads that made the time alone pass quickly. Days flew by as they reminisced about long-ago luncheons with their friends (every sip of champagne remembered, every morsel of food); days spent in the arms of lovers, or simply the butterflies they chased. Their inner lives were absolutely fascinating.