It’s nearing the end of the longest March we’ve ever known and nothing feels real and I can’t get off my phone because somehow it’s permanently attached to my palm. I’ve stopped trying to shake it off. All day long I contemplate the idea of regression and how I’ve never in my life felt less human and more like some extinct primate further up on our cursed family tree. But I am human, and if you’re reading this you (most likely) are, too, which is an inescapable and horribly tragic fact of which we’ve been made painfully aware, at least more so, recently. I know this because I can’t stop watching gory video footage and news reports featuring other humans in makeshift ICU wards in various corners of the earth, how this thing we’re all afraid of doesn’t give a damn if you’re an old man in some European city with a juicy life tucked under his belt or a fifth-grade kid with purple braces and freckled cheeks. It doesn’t give a damn if we’re afraid, either. We’re running out of hospital beds and respirators and doctors and time. The whole world is flatlining. But time, what a foolish, fickle construct, how we’re always running from here to there in our fanciest shoes and fakest egos trying to fill our pockets with shiny, worthless things. Time is privilege for the privileged. I know this because I see it, every single day, in the mirror when I stare at my bumbling hypocrisy and my perfect health and my working lungs and the fact that I am in the prime of my life and yet I choose to spend time watching people suffocate in bubble helmets. Their families won’t even be allowed to bury them and yet I have the gross audacity to watch in silence, safely tucked under the covers of a false sense of security, repeating, Well, I’m glad it’s not me.