An unusually warm and sunny day in November, seventy degrees with a light wind. And we will have a new president after the counting is done. But it’s a confusing sensation, standing on the verge of catharsis while also bracing for the president’s hellacious meltdown. How far will the radius of the blast site reach?
Meanwhile, we wait for a signal, a 72-point headline or a glossy cable news graphic that cements and formalizes. Televisions chatter through the walls and fill the hallways, the sound of news anchors endlessly reporting that there’s no new news to report. I need to remember to look at the sky.
