“...gosh it was/is so utterly unusual.”
He, she, they, we, would/do later/here recant to whoever/whomever was/is listening, or is pretending/will pretend to be, listening that is. And they will never know what it really is/was, only what it feels/felt like. And so it went. And so it goes. Where it stops one could/can only suppose. Time’s a little bitch like that.
Of those who did, most hardly any recognized it at all. The curve with it’s flattening. The happy in the happenings. And most wouldn’t accept it, not at first, certainly not without a litany of checks and rechecks to verify the validity of the trend. Suspicious of a trap.
Fear makes it like that, constant fortifications to do anything other than feel that feeling again, that panic, that fight or flight, the heart of the attack. Seriously. And so...
All were tragically, truly afraid. Terrified to get their hopes up. They were collectively post-traumatic.
But it was real. Time would tell.
Still nobody dared speak of it out-loud, (superstition you see.) And one could almost confuse it as progress.
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