I got myself outside today, first time in

a while. My TV-perfect sub-routines,

wrapped in books, skimming emails,

practicing a lesser way of living,

are all getting a bit Eleanor Rigby

and the self-indulgence makes me sick,

reminds me of that girl from university

who cried over her own reflection.

It’s time to process some material reality:

close your contracts, pay your loans,

call your loved ones, tell them so,

spend an hour on the train to see them:

I will come to you, dear friend(s).

Make amends, let your grudges go,

finish editing your YouTube video.

Get everyone together, toast the night,

say goodbye without saying goodbye because

you don’t think you’ll be here next year.

If we wake before we die, what then?

We were told there would be a reward.

We survived the war—give us free shit.

Our symptoms will persist beyond the plague,

and as the skies turn grey, we find ourselves

in open fields, picking out our benches,

laying down with God and all His pastures

like the sky knows something more than us,

and now I think those things in Heaven

may be less than what they seem.