I am immutably beige, stunningly taupe. I shriek screams of anguish into couch pillows with stains and indents where those before me sat. The air has gone stale and it hurts, it isn’t strong enough to carry articulate sound waves.

Suffocation is too sexy a metaphor for here and now. Muffling is better. The sharp edge of death eliminated, all that remains is an unsliceable vague thickness.

You can’t fight shadows. It doesn’t work. You end up punching the wall. Or the floor. Or the coffee table. Look, the point is this- the enemy is unclear and non-urgent. Some would argue it doesn’t exist. What hope do we have?