First draft masterpiece

I'm not seeking the profound, the profound is obvious; I'm seeking the unprofound, the ironing board abandoned at the southwest corner of Clement and 28th.

I want only to see that it's there, and not what it means.

Nor am I sure what I mean.

Personification is not appropriate at this time: calling the coronavirus a little globetrotter, referring to the virus as a member of the jet-set and so forth.

The capitalist's are panicking, even on Easter Sunday. I don't know what to make of it. I half expect to see a headline in this morning's New York Times: We are the Virus.

I dwell on pictures I could have taken--all the seats being taken out of The Clay Theatre on Fillmore Street and loaded onto the back of a semi. It happened right in front of my eyes six weeks ago, and I did nothing about it! I'd seen so many movies there, and the popcorn too was good. 

I'm reading another book I can't finish. I place it on top of all the other books I can't finish. I'll have to do something about this, it's getting to be quite a tall pile--either buy a bigger house or stop acquiring books I don't read.

I'm reduced to reading books of old poetry. Some of them are a little moldy, having been locked down in the closet for many years. I disagree with most of the poets I read, especially the famous ones--what's wrong, for instance, with going gently into the night instead of not going gently into the night and raging? 

God too is offering such platitudes these days, as if he or she has been born under the sign of the golden face mask. Come on god, wake up, be a real leader! Answer my question: is fate safe?

In my new book, which my agent has declared a masterpiece, pre-selling the movie rights, the people themselves will discover the next great secret. Every character will respect every other character's privacy, total silence and world-wide harmony will prevail. We'll all be too good to be true.