this morning #200.

this morning, a pigeon passed by the window & shat. he sat at his desk with a grin on his face over the concept that, in less that forty-eight hours, this shit year would finally be over. it was not a grin from some sense of impending relief but from the fact that lots of people actually believed that next year would be at all different. once the calendar changed to 2021, there would still be polarizing racists & equalizing wildfires & paralyzing inequality. literal & metaphorical burning of the planet. a cornucopia of circumstances would certainly change but, in the end, the range of lies that people would tell themselves would be just as sad as the ones they’d told themselves at the end of 2019.