Titans of Disgrace

When it comes out at all, the sun rises over an amphibious parking lot. So many boats in the marina are empty. Unlike summers past, there's no sight of fishing poles or teetering girls in heels and a miniskirts, clutching half drunk champagne bottles. Blaring Persian music is nowhere to he heard. No fishing trips or cookouts, either.

Last night on Instagram, a Sex Pistol bared his soul. His life is filled with panic, and anxiety on a level beyond handle. I reached out with a message of hope and received a black heart emoji as a reply the next morning.

I blame the titans of disgrace for this. They know who they are, and so do you. From Stockholm to Sacramento, and all around the rest of the world, every bad decision caused a chain reaction as virulent the disease itself. And so here we are, reduced to tears and PTSD, arguing about masks, and remedies.

I look at the boats outside my window. Endless empty vessels taking up space, and I wonder who are the people in my neighborhood with millions of dollars to waste on toys they never use, and what nefarious means they used to make their money, and if their wealth lulls them into a false sense of security.

It's hard not to think of Ozymandias. Boundless and bare. Full of despair. But unlike sands, it's a manmade ocean inlet I am looking at, and boats bobbing silent. like the end of a zombie movie where the last survivors couldn't make it to their only escape from L.A.