You can’t talk to the dead because they want to be alone. I am deranged. Absurd. Ridiculous. What the living do not understand (they should hear themselves) is that the dead talk back. My biggest challenge in life is to simply survive. From one moment to the next. Survival is not what you will find at the end of a tunnel. I write to tend to pain. I write to tend to the hate friends and family say they have for me. I am alone, but I fight, and fight, and fight. The only weapon I have against hatred is defiance. If I take the defiant armor off, it’s endurance I want to wear. The dead agree. Grief is okay, but it’s a broken record. Survival is okay, but it’s a broken contract. Religion is okay, but they want your broken soul. In grief, I will be overwhelmed, and unable to function. Life is okay, but it’s overrated, and the living will break you because they break everything. I ride a dirt bike, and it’s safer than grief. I ride past grief, and it’s not unlike passing by a telephone pole. The only phone in this house is in my pocket. Grief is as outdated as a telephone pole. It’s about survival. Not grief. I have traveled through many sandstorms. They will whip you. They will turn you around. They will wound you with sand between your teeth. Weep. What is coming as a collapsing of not just our physical cultures, but it will cause us to lose our propensity and wherewithall to reshape accommodation itself.

We currently have a small taste of it. Covid is a precursor, a forerunner of viral geneticism after virus after virus. There are trillions of these little things that can bring us to our knees. We will unleash them, we are unleashing them now, even as we standing around in shock at how the small denials, and the small denials, and the smaller yet denials that are projected at us by the rich among us who congregate secrets of risk while continuing to fill the appetites of greed. There is no evidence to suggest that the development of housing and feeding of the species can be stopped.