In lurid pink, a piece of graffiti appeared on a wall on George's Street in Dublin last week.
"When can we party again?" it meekly wondered.
Not long now, my pretties...
Leo sees you, too. Maybe he knows that for all the talk of grandparents, children and in this togetherness, what Ireland's famished soul really needs right now is debauchery and street drinking.
The loosening of lockdown will come too late for this summer's Pride, a moment when Leo traditionally lets his hair down, however. This week, as festivities should be kicking off, the drag queens are still on Zoom rather than on floats, the pubs are still shuttered and the parade this year will be virtual.
This should, perhaps, have sent disco-starved gay people into the kind of grief state that tennis fans will feel during a silent Wimbledon, or parents experienced when they learned that we might be looking at a two-day school week, but instead, strangely, it feels more like a relief.
Covid-19 has certainly been a trial, but, like a snowstorm on New Year's Eve, it's also a cast-iron excuse to skip something which hasn't been all that much fun for a while anyway.
Over the last few years in Ireland, since the marriage referendum in fact, Pride has been a case of 'be careful what you wish for'.
It's a great and necessary idea, the foundation stone for a movement, but when everyone is clamouring to be on your side, things get really icky really fast. You know those painful celebrity videos where they express mega earnest solidarity with victims of police brutality, or sing John Lennon's Imagine line-by-line?
That's what gay people go through on a yearly basis - as companies and politicians become to Pride what Kendall Jenner and her can of Pepsi were to Black Lives Matter.
Everyone wants a medal without having actually run in the race. Everyone's using their right on-ness to sell you something. There's a queasy sense that this was at least better than what came before - we'll take being co-opted over being discriminated against - but why does everything, even our rage, have to be so slickly commodified?
Pride is like that indie act you loved who sold out and licensed their music to sell Sony Bravia TVs.
There are other, more practical, reasons why Pride is a horror show. It's messier than Paddy's Day - which isn't surprising, you'd get very drunk, too, if you had to survive it - and, as various, silly, out-of-town venues have become the epicentre of the whole thing in Dublin, the queues, for everything, have become almost biblical.
In peacetime, most gay venues are staffed with kindly, knowledgeable bouncers, who will happily shepherd regulars to the front - but in the manic crowd control of Pride, this becomes impossible and stately homos have to slum it with an army of wide-eyed 'allies' on safari, looking for a glimpse of Leo (but having to make do with one of the Simons).
Nothing says 'society will never be equal' like having to queue behind a straight person on Pride. Along with marriage, adoption and job security, important gay rights include 'getting a drink quickly' and 'not having to stand for too long'. The crowds and the chaos mean you come home looking like Panti's wig after a night on the tiles, swearing never again ... until the next time.
Covid might, in fact, be just the ticket to turn back the clock on all of this. A nice, cleansing recession will mean that all of the corporate floats and cynical ad campaigns can't be paid for.
Straight people will be too busy minding their kids 24/7 to clog up the bars with their well-meaning solidarity.
And the sweaty, sticky mosh of an overcrowded parade - which now looks like a sort of petri dish of infection - will be enough to scare all but the most hardened Pride veterans away.
And yet as one gay anthem goes, we will survive. Gay people have a huge advantage over the general population when it comes to weathering pandemics. Having made it through Aids in the 1980s, Corona in 2020 should be manageable. The Pride disco ball will drop again and the true believers will be there to dance under it.