My writing always wants to begin with a rhetorical flourish. This may not be the time for flourishes. Writing may be a form of survival, a way of hanging on. Survive and wait. Waiting around for something to change when it seems nothing ever truly changes. Some people say time is not real, but time is certainly real because time is simply a measure. Time is as real as feet, yards, meters, miles, kilometers, etc. We still have to orient ourselves through spacetime even if symmetry compels the strange and improbable to occur. An improbable year, the end of fascism in America and the dawn of what hope brings.