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.
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