All out

Excuse me, I was just going to write a post, but my dog is pacing. That gives me 30 seconds before all out whining. You do not want to know what he regurgitated between the words all out and whining. I don’t either, but it appeared to be a placental animal. I let the offender run outside (too late, naturally—his tail curled between his legs), cleaned up the mess, let the offender back in (o happiness! said his tail!) and resumed writing. Writers in lockdown, writers evacuated —you pressed in from all sides and yet beloved and so necessary —press against the barricades. One of these walls will fall. We just need one.