:: Buzzwords

04/04/20: 3:AM in Lockdown 18: Gerard Evans

By Gerard Evans.

28 March 2020


I feel like I’ve woken up in some dark Philip K Dick story. And part of that story is that I feel like that morning after morning. The bad dream that doesn’t end when you wake up. ‘The Seventh Seal’ by Scott Walker keeps playing in my head, particularly the 2nd verse.

And this is how it feels, like the Middle Ages. So I consciously replace it with ‘Barbie Girl’ by Aqua, which only feels last century.

The dark clouds of coronavirus persist but I’m not playing. I can’t change the cards I’ve been dealt, but I sure as hell can control how I play them. Victor Frankl knew, in the most desperate of circumstances; an inspiration to us all.

Friends pontificate online and on the phone about whether this might finally change the world and give us, at least, a far more compassionate version of capitalism. That this is the wake-up call.

I’m burnt out on that front — a lifetime of dashed optimisms, the waves throwing them onto the seashore rocks until the tank finally reads empty. I’m not holding my breath. But I am gloriously still: deep under the surface, there are no waves, just the calm water and the fish going about their business.

Truthfully I’m in a reasonably high-risk group, as is my wife. So survival is taking up all our attention. Trying to find that delicate line between paranoia and awareness. Meditating for longer every day in the knowledge that my mental health is also under attack. I got called a snowflake recently and realised, to my initial surprise, that deep down that’s just what I am. Not ready to melt yet though.

Lockdown itself isn’t much of a disruption — I’ve been (happily) self-isolating to some extent for the last 10 years. Realising that I’m uncomfortable in groups of more than 3 was the most liberating and calming change I ever made.

Mindflash back to when I was a teenager and I was going to live forever — I even painted that on the back of my leather jacket, inspired by the Kids From Fame theme tune. I wonder if Noel Gallagher liked that song too. Coughing up a ball of blood when I was on tour and nonchalantly simply laughing about it. Seems a universe away now.

Superstition knocking on the door. That writing this is like tempting fate. Like the Scottish Play or the (now ‘other’) C word.

New vocabularies grow out of nowhere. Social-distancing, self-isolating, furloughed. Fucking furloughed! I mean…

Binge-watching TV will surely take over now. It’s also a weird barometer of how much of a downhill trajectory TV drama has been on over the past few decades. Even The Bill seems pretty good these days.

Or maybe I’m just getting old. Which is OK. Getting old is something I gently treasure right now.

Gerard Evans used to be George Berger but has transitioned.

03/04/20: 3:AM in Lockdown 17: Toby Litt

By Toby Litt.



Just about the worst thing for a writer is to believe that someone else has written the thing you want to write.

Worse than this, though, is the belief that another, better writer is — right now, at this very moment, somewhere in the world — writing the only thing that you can write, right now.

This feeling of being ousted or ghosted by another absent writer is, I think, particularly common when you know something big is happening.

Something big is happening, and it’s partly happening online — which means that it’s possible for a writer (just like any other person) to spend many hours checking up on it, and checking what’s already been written about it.

To tell the paranoid writer — to tell you or me — not to be paranoid, or to stop checking up, or to head in what they estimate to be the opposite direction to everyone else is not helpful.

What may be helpful (I hope) is to suggest they reread stories from other bad times; and to realise these stories were probably written by ousted-ghosted writers — or writers who felt ousted-ghosted.

For example, Lorrie Moore’s story in which, during tragedy, alongside mortality, she’s advised, ‘Take notes’ – and which story ends,

There are the notes.
Now, where is the money?

While you’re quarantined, read Toby Litt’s masterpiece, Patience.

02/04/20: 3:AM in Lockdown 16: Joe Milutis

Music for Doing Nothing
By Joe Milutis.



A few days ago, Italian film composer Ennio Morricone announced that he would not be composing or playing music during quarantine; the absolute value of music was to him meaningless during such a serious crisis and that he felt that Italians who sang on their balconies, while deserving of a little lightness, were perhaps only thinking of themselves.

Americans have reacted similarly to the equivalent in celebrities singing, noblesse oblige, John Lennon’s “Imagine” from their compounds after only a week of lockdown (we can only “imagine” what 18 months might bring). But perhaps we are all guilty of doing too much, of being unserious, balconistas of the virus simply because we are unable to do nothing. Morricone’s statement is reminiscent of the old-school European mode of respect and modesty towards death, atrocity, and historical trauma, in the spirit of Adorno’s “can one write lyric poetry after Auschwitz?” But in this case, the unthinkable has not yet occurred. It is not “after” but “before,” and what comes “after” depends on our ability to do a lot but also to do nothing at the same time. Those of us who have the privilege of staying home are consequently caught between at least two modes of “thinking only about oneself”: faced with the monstrosity of our irrepressible will-to-activity and the grotesque pleasures of impotent inactivity, we can with good conscience do neither. Perhaps a third form of thinking (or unthinking) is necessary, in the face of a virus that does not think and does not self; or rather, in its replication, it seeks its self in a way that makes a mockery of human self and selflessness at once.

Morricone is not necessarily a composer of high modernist austerity and selflessness, however. Rather he is probably best known for his scores for the Spaghetti Westerns of Sergio Leone, which somewhat garishly stylize the atrocities of the American Civil War. There is nothing in his career that suggests the priest-like or otherworldly, other than music’s innate tendency towards abstraction. And in one of the most famous scenes in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, his music is activated precisely at the moment when action is impossible. It becomes loquacious when speech stops, continuing when continuation is placed in doubt. In this scene, Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef, and Eli Wallach — the titular “good”, “bad” and “ugly” — face off in a three-way duel.

Isn’t this the kind of stasis to which the virus holds us in thrall? It would of course be too simplistic to say that we are caught in a duel between the virus and mankind. The virus complicates already gridlocked positions of threes that must be resolved: virus-landlord-tenant; virus-republican-democrat; virus-science-ideology; virus-politics-economics. The trilectal materialism of the Mexican Standoff is even still too simplistic. Trump, Biden, and Sanders were already in a three-way standoff without the temporal axis of the virus competing with the temporal axis of the election.

(If Eastwood’s edge in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is that he knows he has unloaded Wallach’s gun the night before, we have here three political actors who each think they have a similar edge. Biden — seemingly free to cruise into the nomination and focus on Trump — can act as if Sanders’ weapon is unloaded. But Sanders has been acting as if his social media apparatus puts Biden in an unarmed position. Meanwhile Trump holds the ultimate spoiler of executive droit, in addition to the fact that the remaining Democrats are aiming at each other. In the end, however, all movements and positions are hemmed in by the new reality of the virus, including most importantly whether the vote can even legitimately go on.)

If there is comedy, rather than tragedy to the nothingness of the tense non-action in Leone’s film, it is a dark comedy that places this cinematic duel as a meaningless absurdity playing out on a panorama of the dead. Leone’s three duelists are engaged in the non-dance of the already-dead surrounded on all sides by the cosmic backdrop of a graveyard and magnetized by Morricone’s score. We first hear a mixture of disaggregated chimes and castanets, that rises to triumphal and melancholy brass flourishes, while the duelists mark out the space of a void. Crucifixes extend to the horizon, a reminder that “the good, the bad and the ugly” is perversely trinitarian. But these crucifixes, as a religious nicety amidst the horrors of war, also stand in for a type of unthinking, viral replication of a symbol that has been emptied of meaning. Ultimately cynical rather than spiritual — “there are two kinds of people: those with loaded guns and those who dig” — the potential for awareness of the absolute, signaled by the proximity of death, leads to a celebration of selfish actors and survival of the fittest, rather than the communism of the dead.

In this sense, I agree with Žižek’s claim that “we should remain human beings who respect spirituality” in the face of the hard realities of the virus. It is, however, the spirituality not of the earth supercoded by otherworldly concerns that merely provide a backdrop for the interests of a singular attractor (this film is notably the last film of the “dollars” trilogy). Rather, it is the spirituality implicit in the earth itself. There is a reality principle that is not captured by the quadrilectical terms of the socially-inscribed duel. Hasn’t this standstill already engendered ecological miracles such as blue skies in Los Angeles and dolphins in Venetian canals? This is perhaps the first way in which inaction can be deliverance.

Our four-way duel then starts to look a little like this:

This is Latour’s a little bit crazy but ultimately correct model of the ways in which the deadlock between the politics of globalization and the local must be shifted to the terrestrial. This is where my essay kind of gives out, because it seems to warrant much more work than I am willing to give it, and I ambivalent about not wholly embracing my own inaction. But in general, Latour is interested in realignments and new connections and conceptual mapping — a pragmatic approach as compared to the more abyssal politics of OOO or speculative realism. One of his more challenging claims is that, in realigning the trajectory of modernity, we should make alliances with those “who, according to the old gradation, were clearly ‘reactionaries.’” I don’t think this means cozying up with the KKK, but it should take but a minute to reflect upon how potential allies have been branded reactionaries by the relentless functioning of the social media machine. Even Latour has been recently columned over (incorrectly) into the invidious category of “neoliberal philosopher,” as have prominent leftist philosophers following upon and including Deleuze, to whom any discussion of the inaction-image would be indebted.

This brings me to Barbra Streisand . . .

It’s always worthwhile to return to this beautiful moment in the history of television, a year after the Cuban Missile Crisis and a month before the assassination of Kennedy, Streisand at the beginning of her career singing with Judy Garland near the end of hers:

But in watching this recently, I was struck by their avowal of “hate” for each other, even though we are seeing something that looks like true affection. More intriguing was the fact that what makes this a perfect mashup is not merely the ways in which the two legends are able to weave these songs together by slowing them down, qualluding what were peppy, somewhat “witless” songs (again the powers of inaction are in play here). Additionally, and inconceivably, the ideological contents of the songs are diametrically opposed.

“Happy Days Are Here Again” is a song of depression-era optimism — it was notably FDR’s campaign song — which hides the truth of present reality. “Get Happy” is a song of Christian pessimism: evangelical in tone, it reveals the truth, but only as it might be found in death and salvation. Both songs are “playing” with a form of self-delusion, but it is a delusion that is not illusory. After all, however much their performative hatred is a “put-on,” they are starting with a gesture of homeopathy or natural magic, welcoming in an emotional realism that will be managed in the duet. Their mutual delusion can then be carried out without condescension or bad faith, precisely because it includes, rather than banishes, ill-will. And despite this ill-will, both parties have found a way to a fragile and rare connection by bending their delusions to each other.


01/04/20: 3:AM in Lockdown 15: David Collard

Another Leap in the Dark
By David Collard.


A lifetime ago, on 29th February, I organised a ‘A Leap in the Dark’, a Dada cabaret staged in a dilapidated former Conservative Club in Paddington. The venue was unheated but there was plenty of whisky and cocoa and the performers all blazed with a hard gemlike flame (see above).

Such gatherings are now a thing of the future, but the same loose-knit group of writers and poets and musicians and performers all want to share their work with an audience and with each other, to spread some light and possibly even joy in these dark and difficult times. Because that’s something we can do, and something we all need to do, now and in the future, until the current crisis passes, and after that.

So I’m organising an open-ended series of online gatherings which will aim to reproduce the atmosphere of the original gigs, although you’ll have to bring your own booze.

There are no constraints on the contributors (apart from time) and no telling what will happen when we go live at 8pm each evening.

On Friday 3rd April we’ll have live music followed by a conversation between Neil Griffiths (novelist and founder of the Republic of Consciousness Prize), Sam Mills (Dodo ink publisher, author and one of this year’s prize judges) and Frank Wynne (translator of Jean-Baptiste Del Amo’s novel Animalia, announced today as winner of the 2020 Prize). It’s an absolutely stunning novel, brilliantly translated from the French (and the first time a work in translation has won the Conchy). The best review I’ve read so far appeared in 3:AM magazine.

Audience members will have a chance to win a pristine copy of Del Amo’s magnificent novel, courtesy of the publisher and RoC organisers.




On Saturday 4th April more live music followed by the world premiere of Spring Journal by the author and poet Jonathan Gibbs. Prompted by Autumn Journal (1939) Louis Macneice’s great poem about the early days of the Second World War, Jonathan’s poem is a work-in-progress thoughtfully navigating and responding to the social and political changes of the current crisis with sharp wit and a keen, humane eye.

An extract from Macneice’s original and the first section of Spring Journal will be read by Michael Hughes.

On Friday 10th April a live transatlantic exchange with the Vancouver-based Irish writer Anakana Schofield (author of Malarky and Martin John) with readings from her latest novel Bina. Plus the latest canto of Spring Journal read by Michael Hughes.

After that we intend to broadcast two live thirty-minute programmes starting at 8pm on Fridays and Saturdays for the duration, although that may change. Everything may change. Possibly for the better. You never know.

For practical reasons access will be limited to 75 registrations and, to avoid prankster hacks, by invitation only. The events will be transmitted live and not recorded, so unavailable for later listening. That’s part of the point.

How to join the audience:

You’ll need to contact me as the organiser, so DM me your email details on Twitter @davidcollard1

You’ll then be added to a group of invitees on a first-come, first-served basis. Your details will not be shared.

To see and hear what’s going on you’ll need the Zoom app and I’ll be sending all invitees a password on the day. 

There’s no charge, but we suggest a donation to your local food bank or equivalent.

Future confirmed contributors:

Kevin Boniface – author of Round About Town

June Caldwell – author of Room Little Darker

Susanna Crossman – Anglo-French writer of fiction and non-fiction

Tim Etchells – author of Endland and founder/creative director of Forced Entertainment

David Hayden – publisher and author of Darker with the Lights On

Amy McCauley – poet and performer, author of OEDIPA and 24/7 Brexitland 

Dan O’Brien – American poet (War Reporter) and playwright (The Body of an American)

Simon Okotie – author of the Harold Absalon trilogy

Alex Pheby  – author of Playthings, Lucia, and the forthcoming Mordew

Paul Stanbridge – musician and author (Forbidden Line, The Encyclopaedia of St Arbuc)

Isabel Waidner – author (Gaudy Bauble and We Are Made of Diamond Stuff)

Is this what we need right now? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m reminded of my favourite moment in a favourite film — John Ford’s Rio Bravo (1959). Here’s the brisk IMDB synopsis: ‘A small-town sheriff in the American West enlists the help of a cripple, a drunk, and a young gunfighter in his efforts to hold a murderer in jail until the state marshal can arrive’.

For latecomers and those slow to catch on we get a summary of the set-up when an old army buddy of the embattled sheriff (played superbly by John Wayne) rides into town and asks him what’s going on. Wayne explains and his buddy says:

‘A drunk man and a cripple? That’s all you got?’

To which Wayne laconically replies:

‘That’s what I got.’

A Leap in the Dark. That’s what I got.


: 3:AM in Lockdown 14: Tom Bradley

China Viruses
By Tom Bradley.

I stumbled around in China in the mid- to late-eighties, right around the time America’s beloved president was joining the Republican Party. This was during the height of Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, which the natives called “British Bull Disease”.

AIDS was just beginning to scare the Celestials of the Flowery Middle Kingdom. To them, it was the “African Sickness,” or, more benignly, ai si ping, “Lovers’ Complaint”. Due to my low pigmentation and generous dimensions, they amended the term. With the effortlessness their homophone-rich language lends to punning, I was given ai shi ping, “Food Lovers’ Complaint”.

When they found out that my father’s name was Edwine, they transliterated it to Ai De Wen and hung it on me. It means “He spreads the plague”.

All in good fun. No love lost. I won’t repeat the jolly nicknames I responded with.

Here are a couple of pertinent bits from my novel, Black Class Cur (Spuyten Duyvil, NYC), about hypochondriacal xenophobia running rampant in Deng Xiaoping’s domain:

For the first time in thirty years or more, China was admitting increased numbers of Russian experts, specialists and advisors — all of whom were the beneficiaries of favoritist policies. Other “foreign friends” were forced to undergo AIDS tests, their bodies punctured with rusty spikes, their blood squirted into grimy vials with misplaced corks, their relatively pure samples sloshed all the way to the Beijing laboratories mixing with the scarlet sewage of resident Japanese businessmen who spent every three-day weekend banging their cocks in Bangkok. But the forearms of the several invisible, nameless Russkies in town remained virginal because, “Socialist countries have no such foul diseases”.

[Meanwhile, the most virulent strain of alien virus fear was reserved for their own minority groups—]

China was a whole world, and the world had many lightless folds in its flesh, where diseased organisms shielded themselves from the light of Marxist-Leninist-Mao Zedong Thought. For all their talk of “learning from the peasants,” the urbanites still feared the unknowable, gibberish-speaking, black-skinned tillers of the dirt. They had undergone a Proletarian Cultural Revolution, hadn’t they? The peasant revolution was yet to come — or, wait, hadn’t it already taken place? Nobody could think straight enough to sort it out.

In spite of the inspirational parts of Liberation mythology, the rank and file of the Red Guard brigades were unable to forget the sanguinary losses Chairman Mao had suffered at the hands of warlike Mantzu tribesmen and Xifan nomads in the wastes of Qinghai.

They kept hearing coughs and spitting out there in the inky blackness. Local farmers used the catamenia of virgin urbling girls as the active ingredient in a special mulch that made their lichees and longans and loquats extra sweet. Everybody knew that was how they managed to achieve the status of model commune harvest after harvest…

31/03/20: 3:AM in Lockdown 13: Matthew Turner

By Matthew Turner.




I prefer not to. Instead, I would rather think about the normality, not the difference. I would rather imagine a vast fresco painted on the walls of a small cell, depicting spaces of enormous enclosure.

There would be a cloudless sky, a blurred horizon. There would be innumerable cabinets of curiosities; Ole Worm’s museum of fish swimming in mid-air, spears held mid-flight, alligators and tortoises waddling the walls of a rectangular prism; Levinus Vincent’s Wonder Theater of Nature, with its forest of animal cadavers in shimmering spirit, exotic insects, shells and crustaceans, minerals and fossils — a diorama with scenes composed from various kinds of endlessly fractal corals and sponges. There would be Sir John Soane’s perennially congealing alleyway house with clouds of bizarre architectural splinters, Montaigne’s narrow writing tower the hidden conduits between floors transmitting the sound of mass. A cork-lined bedroom. It would be pinpricked with starlit priest holes, with someone concealed for days, wondering over witch markings roughly carved into oak beams. It would be set against cattle running in candlelit cave paintings; the dark, psychedelic temple at Chavín de Huántar, ever expanding light, sound, consciousness. All punctuated by pages from an illuminated manuscript of Julian Assange’s psychiatric report, illustrating his time under house arrest in the Ecuadorian embassy.

There would be stunted trees with extensive cascading roots. We would see Diogenes projecting thoughts of philosophical cynicism onto the blind walls of his home, a large ceramic jar. The blind botanist, Rumphius, collecting shells on an Italian beach, and Pythagoras teaching the principles of geometry from behind a thick curtain. We would see Nabokov shuffling a slim box of index cards, and Dr John Dee communing with other worlds through his dark obsidian mirror. Then inuits thinking in swirling circles of claustrophobic snow, Annie Edson Taylor becoming the first person to plunge over Niagara Falls in a barrel. There would be fantastic visions from sensory deprivation, coruscating after images, a small hole in the wall, with a fibre-optic cable running through, alluding to the great outdoors. There will be ceaseless Sundays, transgression, fevers, revolutions of the imagination.

Image: Fra Angelico’s ‘Annunciation’ in a cell of the San Marco monastery, Florence, Italy.


30/03/20: 3:AM in Lockdown 12: Niven Govinden

By Niven Govinden.


29/03/20: 3:AM in Lockdown 11: S.J. Fowler

By SJ Fowler.

I don’t have a lot to say. I vacillate between sensations and have no strong opinion. It is obvious I am fortunate beyond belief or historical precedence, but I often feel this way anyway. No one, that I’ve seen, in literary terms, has anything interesting to say about it because the lockdown is happening to almost everyone. And those who are ill are best not evoked with stupid writing. Does it matter, as the internet is voluntary, that it all switches between patronising and panicking? I’m worried for some people I know. I’m alive to that and galvanised somewhat. I’m lucky. I cancelled a festival I was organising with over 100 poets who were coming to London from Spain, Italy, all over Europe. Six months dissembled in six days. But I am glad. Two of my family members are NHS or frontline etc… I like how no one has anything interesting to say and as much as I don’t like the articles on how important writing and literature is right now. But that’s just because it’s my job, those articles aren’t meant for me. There is something calming about perspective, for me at least. This is giving me that, though I’d not choose to learn now if I could.

“Another plague year would reconcile all these differences; a close conversing with death, or with diseases that threaten death, would scum off the gall from our tempers, remove the animosities among us, and bring us to see with differing eyes than those which we looked on things with before.”
– Daniel Defoe

c-word youtube comments mashup poem

let’s see what’s going on in good, sophisticated Europe
… takes you to Liverpool

then to a double room in London
a single stays in for twenty days
and goes bananas

one dude eats a bat in China, and suddenly I can’t leave my house
quote of the decade
because we won’t live to see many more quotes

Online advice;
you cannot be anything you want.
love doesn’t get the deal done.
gratitude is the only emotion that taps into a higher intelligence.
material world detaches from the spiritual.
worth comes from character.
the universe rewards authenticity.
adversity reveals character.
the new one who can pull all this off.

within the Diet Apocalypse
Expensive Shit begins to glow
like the food seen
chewing with an open mouth
despising the bbc website

“I’m not a paranoid person”
wears a Rolex in case you need to trade it for a getaway car


28/03/20: 3:AM in Lockdown 10: Lee Rourke

Anxiety and the Writers I’ve Been Thinking of in a Time of Crisis…
By Lee Rourke.

Ever since the Coronavirus Lockdown I’ve been thinking a lot about this quotation from Blaise Pascal:

‘I have often said that the sole cause of man’s unhappiness is that he does not know how to stay quietly in his room.’

Dodgy nouns and personal pronouns aside, there’s a lot of truth in this, when our essential freedoms are taken away all we are left with is ourselves, and our sense of our ‘self’ is a fragile thing. When we are faced with our ‘self’ we are faced with the anxiety of ‘nothingness’ apparent in our existence (Beckett called this the ‘tinnitus of existence’) — it nags away at us, becoming louder and louder and louder, and strange things begin to happen. Of course, Boredom always reveals itself in great waves. Yet, we are ill at ease with boredom. We can’t hack it. It fucks us up. So, we try to paper over these cracks with the company of others, the accumulation of things, and drugs, junk food, flash cars, and other forms escapism we can afford to consume. It’s no surprise to me — as mind-numbingly depressing as it is — that people are still out there on the streets in social groups, panic buying, flagrantly ignoring both social distancing and the gaping voids within them. How else can we explain the lemming-like actions of those morons queuing for hours for their final Big Mac Meal at McDonald’s before it shut down the other day? Oh, George A. Romero, so much to answer for.

The best way for me to describe our current situation is through Heidegger’s maxim: ‘We are suspended in dread’. And for most of us, with this dread comes crippling anxiety. Each morning I look at my hands: they are red raw with over-washing. The skin is dry and peeling, bursting with potential sores. My hands have become a focus of fascination for me: a Bataille-like base materiality of my mental state? Maybe. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I wash them each day. I must wash them in a strange miasma. It has become routine. The other night, quite out of the blue, the famous poem by Keats appeared in my head and I ran to my bookshelves to read it:

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is—
I hold it towards you.

Oh, to be ‘conscience-calm’d’ right now in this strange state of suspension. I know I am suffering with chronic bouts of anxiety, I know I am ill with it, but I embrace it, and in a strange way it comforts me. These hands are mine.

It’s not all doom and gloom here, though: all my asthma medication has arrived, home-schooling the kids is ace, and I read this today, regarding Heidegger and anxiety and nothingness, from a Simon Critchley interview, which gives me strength:

‘Heidegger when he says, “Anxiety reveals the nothing.” And on one level I didn’t even know what that meant grammatically — what does that mean? But I knew intuitively what was at stake. Because I was suffering from profound anxiety, but it wasn’t linked to a fear of anything. So the first discovery I made, if you like, was making a distinction between fear and anxiety. Fear is always related to an object. So you can be scared of crocodiles or whatever, and if a crocodile is not there then you’re not scared. Anxiety has no relationship to a particular object. Anxiety’s a kind of general mood that one has in relationship to the world. And once you’ve got that, once you’ve made that discovery, then you’re no longer scared in the same way. Right? That’s good. So mostly we misdescribe anxiety as fear and we think that I feel the way I am because I’m scared of this or that or this person or that person. And then if you get rid of that, you realize that this is just what it means to kind of be alive. And to be happy with that, then you can lose your fear.’

So, let’s all stop being fearful of ourselves, and simply stay inside, let’s all calm down, as Gabriel Josipovici once said: ‘Everything passes. The good and the bad’. And it will pass. In the meantime, let’s all be alive and content in our rooms.

For now.

Lee Rourke

: 3:AM in Lockdown 9: badaude