This covers the week of 8/23/20 - 8/29/20.
The man moves like a jumping electric wire. He's tormented to the roots of himself. Staggering up and down the street, he raves about how the industry used to want differences but now wants sameness. Homogeneity in opinions, looks, and creative ideas. I don't know which industry he's talking about. His description fits more than one. In his creased suit, and with his briefcase swinging and shuddering, he belongs to no workplace now.
I've walked down this street a bunch of times without knowing that its name alludes to three activists from the Civil Rights Movement who were killed while helping register black voters in the South.
I stay in bed later than usual, grateful for several hours of uninterrupted sleep.
An old man whispers to the young man working at the pharmacy, "You're at this job to land rich widows." When the young man splutters, the old one says, "No shame in that."
Sparrows in an ecstasy of puddles.
Rain nips at us at the end of our walk, a drizzle after all the breathless warnings about a major storm.
She chides me for eating too much chocolate. Then she offers me chocolate.