A slow descent from unique to routine.
We live in uncertain times. Our leaders have divided themselves into dueling factions whose common enemy seems not to be one another, but rather the well-being of a populace that was duped enough by their snake-oil salesmanship and duplicitous doublespeak to cast a ballot, naively projecting their own aspirations and dreams onto the feeble promises of “change” or “a return to values” that the politicians managed to keep a straight face long enough to utter convincingly at a campaign stop. Our heroes can’t seem to keep a grip on the tenuous reins of admiration and esteem long enough to establish themselves as positive role models for our young people before they’re dashed against the same jagged reef of hubris that has been laying heroes low since the days of Greek tragedy. Any functionally thinking human with eyes to see cannot help but be embraced by a deeply penetrating sense of melancholy, remarkable not for its intensity but rather for its consistently gnawing chill of despair, which becomes the most distinguishable characteristic of a series of days and weeks that are made otherwise numb and seemingly pointless. There is, though, one thing we can cling to, one pillar of support and certainty from which, with the grace of whatever deity still bothers to cast a glance over the dregs of what was once her most wondrous creation, we might be able to rebuild a sense of optimism and, as impossible as it may seem, hope: it will always, ALWAYS suck to bu.
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