If he needs a million acres to make him feel rich, seems to me he needs it 'cause he feels awful poor inside hisself, and if he's poor in hisself, there ain't no million acres gonna make him feel rich, an' maybe he's disappointed that nothin' he can do 'll make him feel rich.

― John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

Election years feel like dystopian novels come to life. This one is The Hunger Games, 1984, Lord of the Flies, and Delirium (love is seen as a dangerous contagion, life is regulated and monitored by the government) shaken and stirred, all mixed together and clamoring louder louder louder.

The low meanness it is encouraging between commonfolk tastes like warm pennies, shock of copper on the tongue, and sounds like the clamor of pots and pans tumbling to the floor in the middle of a silent night clanging into the silence again and again.

Election years feel like dystopian novels come to life. This one is The Hunger Games, 1984, Lord of the Flies, and Delirium (love is seen as a dangerous contagion, life is regulated and monitored by the government) shaken and stirred, all mixed together and clamoring louder louder louder.

The low meanness it is encouraging between commonfolk tastes like warm pennies, shock of copper on the tongue, and sounds like the clamor of pots and pans tumbling to the floor in the middle of a silent night clanging into the silence again and again.