A viral shock. The virus don't care about the masked, or the anonymous, or the known, or the unmasked. You stay away from me, I stay away from you, as the song goes. Wash your hands as you wash your brain, often and repeatedly. But it's not actually shocking, not at all, somewhat predictable, somewhat real, somewhat humanizing. The rally around wagon will stir, it will wake, the woke will be dunked, the slam will be spiked.
Something to defeat, another thing to overcome, undoomed, optimistic. These are traits, like an inclination, like a bias, like a trend. The inauthentic graciousness and well wishing is transparent, the giddiness bubbles over, a certain stink can't be contained. A mist of shit. They lie when they brag about daily prayers.
A sad, sad thing to see the transformation of the old Denison Tennis Club into a church. A dang church! Courts still tucked on the hill, neglected, worn out, unplayable, droopy rotted nets, rusted fences, and broken lights. This church is a big disappointment, jacked up priorities, wayward and wandering, going nowhere in this earthly wilderness, just wandering. God gave them a tennis club and they squandered it, wasted it, ruined it.