Maybe a week ago, a touch before rationality gave in and fearmongering finally hijacked society, Marie and I were having a drink on the terrace, toasting to a precocious spring on the blue marble. Suddenly, we heard the plaintive cry of a young supermoon.


Supermoon over Brooklyn

P.S. Notice the plane silhouette over the moon. Sorry it’s not sharper, NYC’s heat blur is an issue, even in winter…

P.P.S. Yes, it is dark in here, I am going through my cyclical dark theme mood.

P.P.P.S. Additional lyrics for this of you who have not recognized the song:

And we’re runnin’ outta wipes
No sanitizer in the icebox
And the television’s stoked