She Looks Good In Her Apocalypse Shoes and So Can You

I bought new shoes again.  Only the one pair of feet, though.  Owning nice shoes in a northern U.S. city is absurd.  If the weather isn't assaulting the suede, the concrete and asphalt are conspiring to tear your sole apart.  Only women in Manhattan walk their dogs in high heels.  Brave denizens of fashion--humanity's dreams, walk on.

I've tried deep dives into the news.  It begets vomiting and panic attacks, so now I'm news-casual, suppressing agony for humanity's losses with the kind of devil-may-care that limns the darkest of Celinesque comedies.  I'm plunging into bookworlds--the longer and stranger the better, anything to avoid looking at the gaping hole in the middle of our world, avoid looking at it right in the eyes. Proust en français, take me away, all the while burrowing a trench toward the enemy--antibody storms and clotting cascades, economic justice and climate change. We. Will. Not. Go. Silent. Say it again. Say it in pretty, dirty shoes. And walk on.