I find that I can’t write about Trump without giving up writing, a state that I have never experienced and never expected to experience.
I, who used to cry so easily, cry less and less as I grow old, and when I do, it’s nearly always because I, who have no ear for music, have been touched by one of two instruments—the bagpipe or the electric guitar.
I sobbed today as I lay in bed with Peggy listening to Steve McDonald’s version of Loch Lomond. So much sweat poured from me that I had to change the cover. I’ve been crying for more than an hour and see no end in sight, but even this is better than three months of powerless outrage.