Year 48…

I am not going to write the words. Not this time; not tonight. I am not going to write about the glaring disappointment.  Or the blatantly pointed and tenderizing dishonesty.  Or the near total lack of basic human compassion intentionally withheld for the sake of robbing a pauper’s empty purse of elusive emotion. I refuse to document the transparent, familiar injustices. Not again. I am no longer playing an uncontested part in the deceitful games designed to just fill this passing pandemic’s echoing, wheezing crawl. Because this infection isn’t going anywhere.  At least not for the foreseeably temporary future and as that disparaging truth burrows in deep through the isolated confines of yet another fucking inexcusable quarantine of the heart, I feel the compulsion to ask …

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