We talk about sculpture gardens and Bob who built a playground inside of a shoe factory. While molding cement into another masterpiece,they beat him to death and staged it, as if he misstepped and tossed himself away in the fervor of creation. Taking turns to smash a metal pick into a tree sculpted by termites and set it to fire. Chasing the smoke in circles that always finds our eyes to burn.

The easy intimacy of a cave. Blackness under a colorful blanket pulled over our heads. Corn that needs dancing to be peeled and birthdays with the lights already off.

The past could never predict such a disaster as a presidency being lowered to Trump. It started out so unbelievable and comical, until the impossible happened. I can’t help but think that it’s all our fault and it pains me to see people blame this on unknown others. Like the rich separating into their private enclaves, the educated have abandoned and blamed half of a group that they belong to.