Quick note on brighter hopes, arrived from a poetry list I'm on. Never knew of it till today:
Abraham Lincoln, by Abraham Lincoln, age nine
his hand and pen
he will be good but
god knows When
From: NetBehaviour <email@example.com> on behalf of Patrick Lichty <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Sent: Saturday, April 18, 2020 2:36 AM
To: email@example.com <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: [NetBehaviour] Virus Diary Day 4: Brightside Politics
Virus Diary: Day 4, Day 44 of Isolation
Deep in the night, time dissolves and what is important seems to materialize.
On a planet somewhere in a vast multiverse, the significance of things comes into place.
On the macro, the matter is small. At the micro- the setting is sublime.
Love is hard to see from a billion light years away; it might be a macroscopic issue, but from six centimeters away it seems to encompass the whole.
Seeing the sun, one wants to walk in it; seeing the fires from orbit, one wants to hold each other and the moment.
This is the brightside politic; the dancing of nurses and the hero's cheer as mortality is challenged; fighting for another day of silence, in breath, in space.
We need as many as can be found; Bravery is to stare forward and move into the moment.
What a magical thing it is to be alive. Period.
As Feynmann once said, it inconceivable to imagine the incredible nature of nature.
The Wheel of the Buddhists turns; the cosmic dance of star-stuff continues.
Trying to spin counterclockwise
Robbing the sphere of its angular momentum
Slowing its spin a tiny bit
Lengthening the night, pushing back the day.
Giving me be a little more time with you. (re: xkcd)