there may be no narrative, still you feel the need to shape one. need and knead, like bread, like clay, like flesh, like the little organs embedded in your brain, narrative of need.
the virus is a narrative writing itself all over nature, over our constructed, planned world. 
different for everyone this narrative, the original, from creation to survival. oh fug it, gnome sane, just talk plain.
ok, but first, as we started walking the rain ceased and i wrote a walking note. this is the time of plague. this is the time of mass extinction. this is the time when every walk is at a funeral pace. this is a time to be glad to keep on, keep on walking.
then the downpour and mister and i ran for cover. i forgot my keys and had to remember the code for the key in the box. i left mister's treats on my bike rack. 
the virus is here, all we can hope for is resistance. what we will do is work with the changes that each day places at our feet. pick up our feet and walk on.
riding home i was one with the rain, there was space between the drops and it was cascading. it is dangerous riding with black hood and glasses of rain for eyes. when i got off the elevator it buzzed emergency and wouldn't quit until i sent it down again. there's that buzz in the background of everything, everything is in the background clamoring to be.