I was outlining and had written the first lines of a story about life after the current pandemic unpleasantness. As the news unfolded, I realized that I couldn't imagine this as fast as it's making its own news. I know that somewhere in California, huddled, alone, trapped in place by gubernatorial decree, writers are grinding out screen plays about this. I could never imagine an entire state on lock down, excuse me 'shelter-in-place'. Whodathunk that a state governor would authorized the authorities to arrest those gathered in groups larger than ten? Television's medical shows, temporarily out of production, are donating their prop medical supplies to hospitals and first responders. Millionaires and CEOs are donating millions to support various portions of our population. Yet, thousands of Millenials are cavorting on the beaches of Spring Break, ignoring warnings and depending, in the perceived immortality of their youth, that the virus will only effect someone else. I think I'll wait until the fat lady sings before I write the story. I want to see how it ends, first. So, I'll go wash my hands -- again -- and stay inside.
Wuchathinque?