When do you know it’s midnight—when does the climax come? We live in Olson’s pejoracracy magnified—not merely governance by the worst but government for the worst, worsening as strategy, cynicism pursued for its own sake, a power no less demonic for its hollowness. Meanwhile the day lurches onward and inward, hour by hour. Grading, attempted writing, a walk in freshening airs past mute mansions by the water. Cui bono? I stare into the pantry willing the image of my desire to appear. What do I desire? What is desire’s nature? The supermoon tonight has its eye fixed on an elsewhere.