I woke up at 6am to get ahead on my research paper on AI and Indigenous spirituality. Instead, I’ve been sitting for the past hour, hugging myself, trying to process the pain and violence. I feel it in my stomach, like a kick, like an attempted rape. I feel it physically. The world smells like rotten pickled herring for some reason. It’s a very specific smell. I wonder if stress can create olfactory illusions. Poetry has gotten me through the past few days, but I think we’re getting to the point where the words will fail me. Just like everybody failed us, even ourselves.

Who started the war? Russia.