it feels like a post-lockdown scream from the belly of lumpen struggle. the insurgency of the singular against bourgeois rationality. first ww1, now covid-19. death through the conveyor belt within and without.

i think i read this too soon and too quietly. it deserves to be yelled at the top of one's lungs. graffiti'd across the walls of vacant buildings owned by absentee landlords. cherished despite desolation.