Each new headline reads like something from a schlocky dystopian thriller. A senator who hates the government has tested positive for the virus. So has a famous opera singer. The chancellor of Germany is in self-quarantine. Fiction feels like the only workable reference point these days.

I spent the morning scrolling through images of empty highways and blank parking lots that look like a new form of land art or maybe a message to the gods.

Meanwhile in New York City, a lone fruit stand on First Avenue plays The Bee Gees at high volume. “How Deep Is Your Love” fills the empty street, echoing across the shuttered storefronts while I get a bit misty-eyed.

Each night in 2020, I wrote a short post for a series called Notes From the End of a World because I wanted to etch these days into my memory. Before the world changed completely.
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