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The last couple of days, my city has been gradually tearing itself apart. Relentlessly, and with a kind of sad desperation. The downtown is burned and looted, being the central location for the protests, and because that's where wealth accumulation is most visible and so more of a temptation. Now the looting and burning has spread out to the mostly impoverished surrounding neighborhoods, and they are absolutely devastated.

It was an incredible thing to observe: blind emotion exploding from the populace, screaming out for change, only to be followed later and eventually overtaken by the baser but more tactile needs and desires inflicted by poverty.

I thankfully live in a neighborhood relatively unaffected by anything serious. And I did not join the protests, even when, early on, they seemed like they might be peaceful, as I am quite afraid of catching the coronavirus (and, I suppose, because I am a coward). Yet somehow I still feel exhausted by it all. From the almost obsessive need to follow the events as they transpired, and the constant worry about what might happen next, as well as a kind of morbid fascination about the extremes that humans are capable of.

When I think about the way George Floyd died, I begin to feel sick to my stomach. But when I think about what's happened -- and is still happening -- to my city, I feel a great sadness, too.

For anyone interested, here's a little album I put together of some of the more interesting photos I've come across:
https://imgur.com/a/MFKulr0