Last night's dog walk turned into a few (ok, six) hot whiskies in the pub. Not ours, as we're closed Monday through Wednesday. An insurance man declared that he missed lockdown: all that time, that glorious time; convalescing, I might add, from the malaise that is late capitalism. Today I'm queasy and lazy, I just want to read in bed all day, drifting on daydream into other worlds. Instead I drop off post and walk the dog, staring at murmurations of starlings as if they're tea leaves at the bottom of a spent cup.





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