These days I walk to the market like I’m about to commit a poorly-planned crime. Even if our bandanas and scarves do fuck-all in terms of protection, they are symbols of taking this thing seriously. A reminder to keep our distance and keep others safe.

The curve might be flattening in New York City, leaving us with numbers that are difficult for the soul to square: fewer people are going to the hospital yet the death rate climbs higher each day. Many of those who entered the hospital two weeks ago aren’t walking out.

Fifteen thousand dead in America since March. And we still have politicians saying it’s not that bad.

Today the last sensible candidate dropped out of the Democratic primary, leaving the nation mired in incoherence from all sides. Strange to think there was a time when being politically informed sounded dignified, even noble. Now it’s like flushing your soul down the toilet.

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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