Resonating a sharp crackle before the cordite smell hit my nostril.
She won't incubate another generation with her belly distended with my blood.
Covid 19.
Fragile threads of RNA -- poised damocles like in an episode unfolding.
Like mosquitoes the contagion swarms and swills across the globe. Humanity is cowering in homes akin diaphanous mosquito nets, uncertain, temporary and thin in defense. Inevitability lies in the stepping out of our temporary and forced cocoons. Who will feel the bite? The russian roulette is what really bothers one. Who will survive? Inevitability? Maybe.
As I swung the bat to exterminate the mosquito, a portmanteau from two of the bard glimmered in my head
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
...As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,
They kill us for their sport.
A Midsummer-Night’s Dream
and
Act III. Scene II.King Lear Act 4, scene 1, 32–37
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