Nothing is worth saying, but two words

What can one say about this.

Cesare is a dear friend of mine, lives in Reggio Emilia, and is a doctor. Last night he was there, at the hospital, and he was alone. Been alone for hours. Yeah there were other people in his shift: only, all doctors and nurses were busy carrying corpses out of the way. Human bodies piling up. He went back home, and I can see the look on his face even from miles away. They’ve got a little boy, I often think about him lately.

I think of my parents. Both struggle to stay put. I am happy I cannot see either, lest I endanger them.

Two nights ago, a pic went viral. I won’t go looking for it now, you saw it: military lorries transporting corpses away from Bergamo (Lombardy), because the crematory over there cannot keep up with the virus.

Total toll in Italy has overtaken the Chinese one, with an absolute madness of death ratio of like 7%. Seven fucking per cent. For once, we are world leaders.

Here in the UK, people are gathering for St. Patrick’s and telling me I am being too pessimistic. I certainly hope so. People finish their one-week self-imposed quarantine, and run out as if it was all done. Good to go, done the time. I am very lucky to be working from home, as most of the people I know and work with. I think of the guys I spoke to via video this week, my team and my clients, and feel closer to them than I should. I want to tell them NOT to go to the pub today, even if it’s Friday. Some of them will. I think of Cesare.

There is only one thing one can say about this. I want to say it, want to scream it on top of my lungs out of the window, and write it on all chats, and videocall everyone about it, and write it on every wall:


Soundtrack: Thulêan Mysteries by Burzum