I woke up feeling hopeful this morning, maybe it was the coffee or the toasted, rustic walnut bread. Either way, it seemed like a good day, a fine start to think about when exactly Trump will get impeached.

The challenge, of course, is that then we’re stuck with Pence, the ghostlike Pence, whose vacant stare and outlook on life is a mix of charm, ooze, and Biblical self-righteousness.

So maybe it’s best to ride it out: Watch indifferently as the jets swoop low over the oil fields, and flames shoot up from the earth as missiles rain down.

One more thing, among many, frankly confuses me: Where’s the Norman Mailer among us railing about this criminal Leader, the Russian conspiracy, the feeding frenzy of the Never Enough crowd about to take over the country? Where is the articulated outrage of a Hitchens? Why is there such relative silence?

Could it be that the literati are thinking things over? Taking their time before pitching in?

Or are they enjoying their walnut bread and coffee, maybe enjoying a bleak winter morning? Feeling a recognition that what’s imagined is often as potent as what is real.