Dennis Hastert

I’ve got nothing, really. I just keep thinking about his victim, brother to his protege. The gaping maw you must have in place of a soul that lets you hurt and hurt and hurt and have it never affect you.

The sky is big. It stretches in a big curve away from you and the land is so flat, so thin. How many things happened to us all under that sky stretching away? I feel like so much of my Illinois childhood is, in retrospect, young people trying to show that something was going off the rails for them, while adults turned and turned and turned away, finding it easier to see anything else.

No wonder the sky recoils from that place, really.