It’s late; it’s closer to sunrise than sunset. The birds will be chirping before the alarm, and the guinea pigs will be nibbling on the hay beneath the bed.
It’s weird going outside during any part of the day now. I have yet to explore the world before dawn since there is no reason to ride my bicycle to work anymore, though, I somehow suspect the world is almost as quiet during the early morning as it is right now — just a few more cars, maybe.
There is a part of me that likes the world better now — not so active, entropic, frenetic — not so anything anymore, as if the population were cut in half only in that they are stationary for a while for as long as their reserves will nourish them.
I sat outside the other day and looked at the buildings with their units all honeycombed together and their satellite dishes stuck to the sky — their azimuth and altitude set like a stuck sunflower gazing at the same spot while the sun courses overhead and down, and down as if there is some opposite to the heliotropic nod of the flowers — an unnaturalness in being set at one station… an unnaturalness, for there is not much else to call it.
Yet here we are with a soft quarantine. And things feel how they are supposed to feel, in some regard, with our faces like those satellites not moving so wild anymore.
But i’ve always been one to find comfort with my eyes drawn to a certain spot. And I am now more in my element than not.
I am me 