Life and Death At the Market

The long flow of lines from corner to corner from tomb to the tomb. To be marred by taint like bat in the sun and child in the womb the tenuous flesh, unknown alone foo far from comfort, too close to death, as earth's filament spin a new tragedy, the market suddenly is an alien space thick woven in suspense: this virus does not discriminate among shoppers so be careful not tripping over its red carpet. Has the end of world come? Can we rise up against it? Or sign a peace treaty with it? The dead keep piling under the onslaught we're in retreat. Skipping the market pierces my mind as our progress to entrance screeches to a halt by a coughing sound from behind, turning our lines into a tavern brawl, like a new herd community withstanding a hurricane without winds and forest fire without flames. Has God appointed it to put us to the test? Entering, the market looks completely dead as vibrant as a funeral parlor with shoppers looking warily, breathing heavily under their masks, humanity's new visage, crushed by fear, and terror -- 'to cannon all men are equal'. Our new mantra, the three Ds: death, doldrums, and defeat. Exiting the twilight zone, my mundane activity a harrowing, heroic effort, bursting with hallucination. Driving past the stoic faces in the line, it's fear peaking not the virus.