i understand why the kids are contemplating suicide. what about the adults? what about the old? the pandemic is everywhere in everyone. and the multinational corporate hell—everywhere in everyone. maybe the kids feel more hopeless than the old and the adults because they've seen this coming a long time, and some of them despite the threat still believe the central narrative. 
the thing is we can't deny it, and we're still—for the moment—here. 
what is work. i paused this and read a poem by philip levine, what work is. work is work i been told in several bullshit jobs. work is resignation, commiseration, hell for the masses.
i'm lucky i have my own work. still i have my work cut out for me. nobody's free in this democracy. work is independence they say, staying ahead of debt, but what about the work we do in dreams, in translating ourselves, in this alienated space, in dreaming awake. let's say while we're not working for the money for the moment that the real work is not keeping body and soul together, but bringing soul to the body, and movement, moving the body to the music of the soul. ha, something like that. i was up several times last night and i'm tired again, still. i read the book fathoms. i'm reading it slow. i want to be in a book like an author. i don't think i have a book in me. the book of life is a phrase, yet a book is a body of its own, independent, emissary, well a body is a book as well then. a book lived in me a while. if i forget does a book die. it goes on. i go on. maybe we overlap, maybe we go on our separate ways. a book is a person a person sends outside. an emissary. 
you see how this could go on. you see a little how my mind works. you see i may not be capable no i am not currently and likely will not be capable of writing a book. you see that this is it for me. 

anyhow, i only have one dog today, one lulu. rhymes with gratitude, and i hope i don't have to ask for work again.