"The war is going well, I hear," she says. "Praise be," I reply. "We've been sent good weather." "Which I receive with joy." "They've defeated more of the rebels, since yesterday." "Praise be," I say. I don't ask her how she knows. "What were they?" "Baptists. They had a stronghold in the Blue Hills. They smoked them out." "Praise be." Sometimes I wish she would just shut up and let me walk in peace. But I'm ravenous for news, any kind of news; even if it's false news, it must mean something.
How appropriate for 2017.
