Plague Journal #6

Having a hard time assembling coherent thoughts, but that's okay. Everything seems to make sense later. I didn't know what to write and considered improvising a poem or song. It began:

Every day begins with Munchausen syndrome,

In the arms of a toxic toupee,

Dangling a dead rabbit,

Pulled from an asshat.

That means nothing and it means many things. It could easily be political. It started political. But it could also be fabulist, historical, retentive gibberish. Most definitely the latter. I've never been able to focus on politics for very long, but the past few years have seen a gradual change. I never used to wake up angry about it. I had more private reasons for being angry. Now, NPR is playing in the house for hours every day. Is this what growing is? Is this a bad cover version of my life? 

I have nothing to say. People are getting sick and dying worldwide, in a way that most of us have never experienced. At the same time, the sense of panic (at least in this household) is sedated at best. We wash our hands and profusely sanitize if we need to go to the store. Other than that, things are relatively status quo. But this new and interesting fear is like having canine senses when a bad storm is brewing.

For the fun of it, lets bitch the black cloud and watch Tiger King