Sitting by the radio during the war must have been something similar, premier dan in his pressers become a kind of Churchillian figure delivering the somber news and attempting to rally spirits. Many months now a routine recording of the daily totals had taken hold—infections, tests, ICUs & ventilators, all duly noted in the diary. Deaths had been rare here at least, a number of months ago the last. In the media Hiroshima Day had passed without a single mention; even before the virus it had been falling away. Finally the morning after The Progressive in the States duly carried a feature. A couple of days ago a young magpie had been observed up above the medical centre opposite the station, flinging itself against the dark glass of the window on the upper storey. The poor deluded bird launched itself repeatedly from the top of the balcony rail, again and again into the reflected trees and sky in the glass. A couple of trains had passed while the hopeless attempted flight continued. Not a bad metaphor. A few mornings ago a sudden episode of phantasmagloria resulted in a surprisingly strong spurt, which reached onto the middle of the chest and the rolled up tee. It had been quite some while since there had been anything remotely comparable. Fitting in this season of record-breaking feats in Tokyo.
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