It is now May. The beachside and hillside bonfires have died down. The conferencegoers have retreated, bleared and belching, back to their suites. The current heads of former heads of state rest comfortably. A high threadcount is just reward for a life of public service. Meanwhile, the janitorial staff arrives with the sun. They scrub the cabana toilets; they clear empties off the pool patio bar; they gaff a few laggard sleepers, adrift and snoring, from the altcoin branded ballpit. Cards and private numbers, public keys to public life, various fluids, have been exchanged; various keynotes have been addressed. Global society is back. Food and beverage entries proliferate in the ledger books. The month and its morning stars (Mercury in Gemini, Venus in Pisces) tell us that we will make it, that we’re all going to make it—surely, we are—just as soon as these sheets are changed.
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