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“Gazing at the written world, seeing the elegant self-restraint that guards an inner decomposition, a biological decay until the last moment from the prying eyes of the world; that bilious, sensually disadvantaged ugliness that is able to kindle its smoldering fire into a pure flame and to even usurp the throne in the kingdom of beauty.”
— Death in Venice, Thomas Mann
“Really?” asked Lo as I mixed the gin in with the tonic and sliced up a sliver of lime.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s not even noon.”
“What is time in a global pandemic anyway?”
We were two weeks into lockdown. We were stranded in paradise. Far away from our everyday hustle and bustle, cold weather, friends and family, we followed the dire warnings about travel a week into our winter vacation to the beachside resort town. The sun was shining, the sea breeze gently moderating the temperature, the inviting golden sand beckoning us to walk through it barefoot. But all the amenities of this place were off-limits. One-by-one each pleasurable pastime was shut down, cordoned off, closed — first the bars and restaurants, then the beach itself, and finally the boardwalk. We were allowed to walk on the sidewalks, but that was it. There was nowhere to go anyhow. We could take our lives in our hands and go to the supermarket to get necessities…