Evil’s root awoke me today and convinced me that it was Saturday.
It was not.
This confounding continuum began when I thought Thursday was Friday. Before that I cannot recall. But it was a deathlike sleep from which I awoke, and next wondered where went the old man. I virtually tracked him down, but did not check journal nor site online to see when I lived today. All dates remain abstractions, just like evil’s root.
This concept (coinage and bills) begets all evil. And traced to us wearing literal public masks and decamping to our houses. Screening if we have work, hiking otherwise, sleeping when neither works. No depositing to bank accounts, just overdraft fees, with loans elbowing their ways by means that add to balances that make more imaginary numbers and concrete fees.
Elsewhere, lions lie upon asphalt lanes while coyotes saunter down deserted fora. And I am going broke one suet block, one bag of seed and fruit at a time — fueling white-winged doves, purple finches, and red punk-head ladder-backs. I set food for them outside my bunker. In turn, they chase each other all day, begetting more winged creatures while the two-legged ones about us cannot breathe let alone fly.
I scrawl on window panes: Help, send seed. Need fruit. It’s Saturday and I must not leave. Evil’s root holds me captive.
