No fever, you write, how are things on your end? They report back with undecipherable ailments, we scour our bodies for signs of decay but after a year such as this, they are too easy to find. I cover six miles in a fog and think this must be a good sign but the rest of the day I spend reclined. He drives in from outer boroughs to bring thoughtfulness, and you wish you did not have to count the feet between you so carefully. The Center for Disease Control speaks for you now, but perhaps not forever, and you wonder what things will look like, then.
Everything starts soft.
The trick is not to let it become hard.
You aren't so broken you cannot be fixed.
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