A week to which there is no return

Maiden voyage, 12/1/21:

Man with coffee, seated, looking around . . . 3:30 in the p.m. on Colectivo patio, a few yards from Clark Street reading Richard Hughes’ Fox in the Attic. Very careful writer, says intro, author who takes time to do it right. It shows.

Lo, on Clark and the side street Rascher, where the man sits, mad monks walk by. Mad monks — he’s never met one, it’s a Gothic trope — are his fellow citizens in masks, covered nose to gullet, one after another, heads down, avoiding so much as a glance at this man in snappy red sweater under stylish green, chilly-weather vest.

They walk quickly as if he were emitting darts of sickness. They remind the man that these are the days of the virus, the evil spirit which hovers over all.

To dentist today . . . He had my “partial” ready to try. . . .

more more more . . . 

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