A virus seethes on Earth.
Its symptom is unmistakable.
It erupts in a blind and triumphalist anger.
This is the halo-virus.
Its R-number is stratospheric: but that is all to the good.
All who catch it become the soldiers of God.
With heavy breath and spittle they pronounce words of love.
They are the Holy Literalists.
They shall wipe humour from the face of the Earth.
Love is their hate and hate their love.
What is their aim?
With an army of anonymous trolls in the background, to dull and deaden the mind of society.
No statue of any human shall be allowed to stand: for it has feet of clay.
But there shall be statues of all in the Promised Land.
What things will they be, these statues?
The halo-virus is the deadliest plague-seed to visit the planet.
It knocks the coronavirus into a cocked hat.
One has brought death to millions.
The other is more savage, more subtle.
It targets the mind with a sleeping-sickness.
An alertness to others is starting to die.
We begin to forget our humanity.
