st_vincent: Yesterday I decided to rearrange my bookshelf. I even boastfully posted about it on my insta story. Moments after making a sardonic joke about organizing the books by the date of death of the author, those dead authors rose up in revolt. They did not like being joked about, made inglorious on social media, no less, and so kicked up a storm of dust that had me coughing and sneezing and eyes watering. (Fair game.) I repented for hours until I could suffer the sneezing no more (my Fortnite game was also suffering as a result). I threw on my face mask, gloves, and trench (for good measure) and headed to the drug store for some Benadryl. Not the non-drowsy, either. The good shit. I was determined NOT to cough or sneeze for the duration of the shopping spree, lest I horrify my fellow quar-comrades. No luck. While in line behind a few properly socially distanced patrons and a brave shop clerk, the dead authors raged. It was hopeless. I coughed and sneezed out all of my Susan Sontag and Vonnegut. Every James Baldwin essay. The people looked on in disgust and horror. I tried to explain to them that I wasn’t sick, that I was just being haunted by the ghost of Ian McEwan. They looked at me incredulously and said, “but he’s not even dead.” So it goes.