Our arms are hungry and hardly remember that moment when they were full. The crisis will be what it will be and containment will roll back the virus as much as it will roll back our humanity. Because our arms are hungry. Our hands are widows and our skins now flaking like that of a pangolin.
Our arms are hungry.
How long did it take to realize this? One week? Of them? At the beginning, the organization took precedence: how to live? What hours? How to care? Our arms carried the contents of the cupboards to be put away, then the libraries to be classified; useful arms, reinforced arms. We lacked nothing but little by little something was missing. The arms expressed a tiredness, perhaps, a vacuum surely. Strange and painful sensation: how long have I not touched or been touched. A clenched hand, a hand on a shoulder, my hand on your knee. Through confinement, fertile solitude has been transformed into isolation, a gag on silence.
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