No gigs. No plan.
Sun’s out like nothing’s wrong.
Keep walking. One foot. Then the other.
How long can someone rehearse for something that never premieres?
Told Aidan to leave.
The old one at the kiosk still smiles.
Like they know departure’s in the air.
Like they’ve seen too many come and go with unfinished thoughts.
The key. Was it taken? Left?
Does it matter?
The virus hums in the background.
Like grief without a language.
Disinfect. Translate. Dream up futures that collapse by morning.
No fever. No cough. Just dread and pollen.
Aidan thinks the exit was for sunlight.
Maybe it was.
Or maybe silence got too loud.
At least the streets don’t pretend.
Cracked. Dusty. Full of stray cats and untold endings.
Could write.
Should write.
Deadline whispers “tomorrow.” Body replies with stillness.
Everyone talks about distance.
But this… this is familiar.
Always a few beats outside the rhythm.
Note to self:
There’s always a choice.
Even if it’s just which mask to wear today.
Gate closes at 19:10.
Plenty of time to forget something essential.