As they do, as one does (notes, observations)

The nightingale does say jug-jug-jug, I seem to recall the Elizabethans put special emphasis on this,
and
smells come out more at night,
and
it's not really getting dark anymore, although you have to be in an unlit place to note this. Although we still get stars. And although there are times I am obviously grateful for the footpaths being lit, darkness is actually scarier when you're trying to keep out of it.

And
melancholia is more nuanced, and a bit like the sea. You can plunge or be plunged into it, swim and sink and drown in it, but depression - my depression, at any rate - is flat and grey and two-dimensional and doesn't feel like anything, which is why it is so terrifying. I hate it looming in my life.

And
meanwhile back in the real world,
children suffocate in the ruins of their schools, some of them the age of the tinies I teach and treasure, some of them the age of my own offspring, they'd already made it to the edge of young adulthood, were already in the hallway of life, hungrily peeking through the keyhole at The World (as the poet says). Several days it'll take some of them to die, their young bodies and sweet limbs crushed and broken,
and
bodies float downstream on the Irrawaddy, swollen bloated bellies upwards, greening, blackening, the sickly-sweetish reek of death heightened, no doubt, by the tropics (remember how the dead rats stank in a day in Hawai'i), flesh beginning to to fall off them in rotting chunks, people and buffalo in an agrarian harmony in death as in life (they come from upstream, the survivors say, they are not our villagers)


(and don't forget to mention the syringes you pick up at the playground, or the lesson about things to not touch you had to give them in a circle, using your demo case of needles and fake-blood-soaked wads of kitchen paper cetra)