EXT. COUNTRY ACREAGE — DAY

Woods. Orange leaves rustle in the quiet wind. The fiery glow of autumn shines.
Atop a hill is a small single-level cabin of wood with big glass windows. On the other side of the house in the woods is a regal BUCK.

INT. COUNTRY HOUSE, BATHROOM — DAY
Jack in hunting attire examines his eyes in the mirror and then looks at his reflection. He hits off the light and goes out…

INT. COUNTRY HOUSE, LIVING ROOM
Walking through the country house. Stone and exposed cedar. A relaxed rustic minimalism. Ornate chandeliers. …

Kottman had scheduled at that very moment and indeed previously a lunch appointment with his mother, he regretted his submission to her demand, they must meet, she had said, at once, at once, to discuss an urgent matter, then and always Kottman regretted his regret, he knew regret futile, an impoverished way of thought, of thinking, true reminiscence radically elsewhere, true reminiscence impossible. Kottman had nothing to reminiscence about whatsoever when it came to maternal material, this he regretted too. He was staring out the window, why all these cars lined the block he would never know, certainly he could…

She had been reading an actual book. It emitted no light aside from that which it reflected. So she couldn’t believe the sonic audacity in the air before insulting the intelligence of her unrealistic expectation. She considered leaning into the satanic lullaby masochistically, as she had done all day at work, but this only worsened things as the cellular device continued its screeching summons. The stupid owner, probably a male, but really one never knows these days, wouldn’t take it. And neither would she. The absence of the quiet-car sign made no difference, neither for her rage nor for the…

And so he was motionless in the dark room resembling imperially one-third microsecond from-to original refraction plus ten centiseconds hence retinal annihilation in the virtuality of the not-yet flickering monitored projection, representing a colossal marble representation of Argus Panoptes, a watchman in the ossuary of the columbarium within a canvased catacomb standing watch over the dead going to die, the real standing in desertion. By him this procession proceeded. In his own standing-reserve looking into the dark set upon the beings gathered there by being, what radiance remained, or perhaps radiance as such, enframed him in the vertigo of its…

The coronavirus and the black lives matter movement share intimate connections that transcend their virtuality, coalescing into a twin outbreak, a so-called twindemic. One virtual process constituting the coronavirus includes mass hysteria: psychological contagion codified by means of social media, other virtual technologies, for example the virus itself, and the gamut of institutional apparatuses and power networks composing contemporary capitalist reproduction. One virtual process codifying the black lives matter movement includes in part the virtual reproduction of a different mass hysteria: intoxicating civil disobedience and its discontents, the latter of whom include highly normalized white Americans, suburban and soon-to-be-suburban white…

When the coronavirus announced itself locally in angelic tones through the designated (social) media outlets, hundreds of thousands of households hoarding more than $200,000 per year, almost all white and fragile, just not self-identified, fled their homes to second homes, familial, owned, rented, while essential (the endurance of presence, not whatness) sacrificial lambs — regretful immigrants in delivery and food service, really? until when? how grateful the white folk always are inspired by their gratitude self-help— for whom physical workspaces will never turn plannedly obsolescent, until they do, marched on, armed with novel orders. A new day reigned. Though it…