Not so long ago I sought sanctuary one afternoon in a beachside café-bar in Belize, for what I thought would be a quiet drink. There were little more than half a dozen other patrons present: couples chatting softly plus one or two other solo individuals minding their own business unobtrusively.
But after a while, a motley mob of Americans, operating at maximum volume, came in off the street and without waiting to be attended to by a server, started to rearrange the tables and chairs around the joint to suit their need to occupy a dominant spot in the middle.
From then on all attempts to tune out of their blaring yet screechy conversation and concentrate on my book were hopeless.
This is a bit like what it feels to be alive in February 2025.
The last place many of us really want to be is inside that septic bubble, but it has entered a phase where it is suddenly inflating rather fabulously like the early universe.
(Grok was struggling to reproduce this remembered scene to my complete satisfaction, but then, out of the blue, tossed me this somewhat left-field option above, which I rather like.)
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