Of the Plague Year -- March 25
The comfort of the familiar. The coffee will bubble to the top of the French press come what may. And with a north wind, the synthetic church bells can be heard tolling six. Quasimodo at the keyboard, wearing a medicinal mask, playing his One Note Samba.
I dreamed that I stole thousands of Percocet tablets, on a bike in Ghana, with a friend. My brief relief overtaken by the prospect of another day of confinement.
An old unearthed CD -- Elvis Costello's Favorite after Favorite -- slides into my new dash, and so Nick Lowe, never one to stand clear of the abyss, can sing another street-suss serenade: "I"m a mess … for want of your caress..."