It starts as we're walking down the main street, deserted in Good Friday morning schedules: April snow. The flakes are tentative, like they hesitate to exist but sort of cannot help themselves. The air is cold, they dance without really sinking, like everything is suspended, even the world. The magnolia blooms by the library have shut tight again; the first cherry blossoms have bloomed in Brooklyn, but you are not yet ready to believe it. Jesus died for somebody's sins, but perhaps they were his alone.
We all gotta deal with our own shit, as they say.
Spring is slow this year, reluctant. Last year how it burst into our locked down cities, how it spread like wildfire across abandoned neighborhoods, how it declared its fuck you I won't do what you tell me into the concrete, into the bated breath of a world paralyzed by fear of invisible foes. Spring does not care about your trivial lives. You die for your own sins.
Spring's only mission is to live.
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