“That’s why I quit politics,” a teen says into his cellphone, juuling with his free hand.

“…I can see it’s a black, shrunken stick about ten feet high, stripped of the bark I once ran my fingers over.”

“Yes, we are still staring at a screen, but this feels different — like a bridge to something elusive and so often lacking…”

“Much of this is simply a lifelong tendency on my part to notice where the crowd is running and then run in the opposite direction.”