My wife—a person of unfathomable resilience and practical wisdom, to whom such fugue states of panic and epochal despair were essentially foreign—advised me to leave my apocalyptic obsessions at the door. The vibes were bad enough out there in the world, on the airwaves and the timelines, without my channeling them into the home. I was not John of Patmos, and this was not some cave of island exile: this was a house, and people were trying to live in it.
