Light & Motion [1]

Sometimes, when you are on a bus in Queens, both your parents' point of origin & a place you were nonetheless surprised to find yourself living seven years, you hear a low-mouthed rambling whooshing kind of mealy mouthing behind you, in one of the dozen or so standard Caucausian Queens accents that were peripheral, not central, to your life growing up nearby: the one that, upon more regular exposure, has become your least favorite of the bunch and here he is, bus-close. A low-mouthed rambling whooshing kind of mealy mouthing behind you, ever louder, ever more rambling complaining, pumping negative opinions, everyone's out to get me and it's not because I'm talking to myself in public about how no one but me understands and is horrible horrible they just don't know anything not like I do not like I do

Sometimes, this becomes your president talking

Sometimes, this sort of thing ends in impeachment, sometimes

Sometimes, self-ejection becomes a virtue.