comfort of their homes. There are people dying disguised as numbers. Killers disguised as men in uniform. Incompetence and messy plans disguised as mere shortcomings. But it’s been a year. When will this end? Her eyes on the screen and fingers on the keys. The cursor won’t stop blinking unless she begins to write. But there are only questions and no answers. Worse, it feels like everything depends on her-- as if this will only end when the blinking ends. But it’s neither a beautiful day nor a perfect time to write after all, so she asks again, when will this end?
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