Wincing at the world from behind sturdy, latticed window grilles, I promise myself that I’m not conspiring to constrict my chances, fear life’s opportunities. Whatever is going on in the world right now feels inevitable, messianic. But these omens are alluring and shiny. They look so presentable on a doom scroll. I want to say that this glorious hypertrophic media whirlpool triggers an anxiety latent within me, winds up my neck and chest, but that would be false too. Scotomization is my familiar activity. Its physiological corollaries—flinching, blinking, recoiling, or a complete shutting down of the will to cognize—comfort me. These are completely natural insulating reactions, sedulous to a body like this, and
guided by killer preservationist instincts.
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