The Chinese takeout spots along First Avenue have pulled up their metal shutters. The florist is open.
Maybe I should work on my resume. Instead, I press on with reading The Plague, dropping the book every few pages to marvel at its resonance.
New York City. My attention span has been chewed up by the news.
Like a modern-day Virgil, David Wallace-Wells guided me through tomorrow’s weaponized geography of fire, mud, drought, floods, toxins, rain bombs, and damage mechanics.
My thoughts keep returning to a line in The Handmaid’s Tale: “The newspaper stories were like dreams to us, bad dreams dreamt by others.”
