A single moment in an ocean of time, past, present, and future. It’s June, 2020 and people of all races and ages behind N95 and surgical and bandana masks leave space for one another to walk past Grand Central Station, the grandeur of which strikes anyone who enters, because of course it is beautiful, it was commissioned by a Vanderbilt. But it doesn’t matter that it’s beautiful because now names are written on the underside of skateboards moving down an avenue of the same name, marking the individual lives senselessly lost across a nation that has to look back even to the time of its founding to understand why.
𝘛𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘯: 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘖𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘰? 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝟺𝟻 𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘐𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦?