Social distancing is a new literature, a bitter cup of surveillance and incompetance that asks us to accept our ruin with equnamity. We quarantine ourselves with tigers and exotica, with mean-spirited declarations of better days ahead, with books, even if the "books frighted them terribly."¹ Who will pay this bill of masks and ventilators and food gone off? Who will free us to become nomads once again, a notebook in our pocket, "forever naming the contents of (our) territory, it is impossible (we) will not become a poet."²
¹ Daniel Defoe · A Journal of the Plague Year
² Bruce Chatwin · The Songlines
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