From the Nosebleed Seats of Democracy

Very few men or women eat what they’ve killed. Usually by the time they get around to eating what they’ve killed they’re no longer hungry, or what they’ve killed has already begun to stink.

Trump’s a real killer. There’s no stopping him now, though we have practically no idea where he’s going. He’s outrun the machine.

The complete incoherence of MAGA does make a kind of sense as a battle-cry. Trump the hunter-warrior wounded into heroism. Bloody and bandaged, he sits on the throne, raising his fist, having fought so valiantly for his loyal subjects, “the forgotten men and women of America.” It’s as if he’s transferring real power to them!

Most of us aren’t prepared for this kind of stuff. It’s not the hero’s journey, it’s something else, something incomprehensible.

When I was young I understood almost nothing. I still understand almost nothing; rather, I understand nothing at all. Nothing still stays the same and nothing stays the course. Nothing is a kind of empty platform, a vessel made of sand in which nothing matters, there is no meaning, no meaning can be certified.

The ancient Shroud of Turin and the new Trump bandage. No miracle will happen, but I can become a better man.