in the time of corona, the medicos are clear. My canalside trampings burn a few cals but my chops intake has soared, a gorging and storing atavism to keep the dread at bay. Dreams are more vivid and questing, we earthlings sense the times are unhinged, gone fuzzy, and I find myself repeating my walks or shifted to some shadowland itinerancy, wandering about in a wagon, plodding along a cliff top. Any thought of shedding weight seems worlds away from this strait. But it’s the survival game, it’s what we do. Everyday, when the eyelids first flutter, we reinvent ourselves.
