I live in a large complex, three towers in all, connected by a sprawling underground mall, and so I wasn’t as concerned as I should have been when they shut it all down. I explained to the security team that I lived in the left tower and there was no need to impede the flow because this was where we all lived. They said that they found the idea ironic and used force when I tried to cross again.
My students thought this was all very funny and sent the dumbest one up to my room who decided to lick my face as a joke. The fact that he was infected made it funnier for everyone. They had already planned a tour of the neighborhood with the sole purpose of spreading their germs. They thought that was ironic. They insisted on saying that even after I showed them what the word actually meant.
I remember the passage out back. It was a secret thing. And that it is what made it marvelous. I remember being there with you. And that makes me sad. That is why I can’t sleep like I remember I did. I wish it were not like that, but I rip everything up, and I think I can answer for that.
That’s easily one of the dumbest things I’ve ever written. Or maybe this is it. Probably. A close second anyway.
The exploding virus came to my town and I didn’t know what to do. People were scared. It was something that they didn’t know. And that was it. There was nothing else but that.
It was a dance called the virus. We were on the sidelinelines and than we were in it. It was a terrible thing but it was us. We weren’t okay. And then it was something else. And, later, we talked about how we would remember all of this.