Post-lockdown Dispatches: Week Three

A war-torn, flooded landscape of desolation. Ruins, no signposts, a weak moon rising on the horizon. A lone figure at an unmarked grave. Too numb to weep.

I know who lies buried here in the country of my soul. I don’t want to pretend otherwise. But I have no words to explain. (Please don’t ask.) It is a time of mourning.

I cut my lockdown hair.

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