Others might get sick, be hospitalized, or even die, but no one we know will really be affected by it.
How much there is to sing of, breathless as frog at noon, a song echoing desire, our pent-up viral longing for something more than monitor.
Better to live alone than with this kind of emotional wreckage, I counseled myself.
If a group of people, maybe our entire planet, wanted to exit the wormhole, would their desire be enough to make it happen?
As I looked back, they sifted through the air, like ash, and resumed feeding.
