Ours was the home friends gravitated to. Where the door was always open and some homemade delicious meal to feed an army was baking in the oven. It was a place in which it was impossible not to feel a heart full of love and peace.
Don’t ask me about my sun, my moon, my stars;
Don’t think they will teach you my triumphs and scars.
The truth you are seeking won’t come in a word.
The secrets I’m keeping will speak when I want them heard.
Don’t ask me my sign -- no, don’t ask me that yet.
A deeper cut reveals a culture of psychopathy: a party sickened by its hatred, misogyny and xenophobia; grown too accustomed to deceit; blaming others for its missteps; compromised by a paralysis of ideas; resorting to character assassination and abject humiliation of perceived enemies; ...