In 100 Years When

When I approach you on the street, read between the lines of my whispers. Know there are no pipe bombs planted in my words. My fingers aren’t daggers. Yes, my eyes are recording devices, but only to recall this moment long after we’ve parted ways; when we’re both lying awake in the middle of the night, wondering what new derangements will greet us the next day. Let’s meet again in 100 years when, hopefully, all this craziness has died down. No more red hats. No more insanely stickered vehicles resembling stalker vans on steroids. Just a land where kindness rules. And MAGA stands for—Mercy, a Grand Achievement.

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