The restlessness is like a coiled muscle at the back of my knee, screaming and refusing to let me sit. Like a fly trapped in a bottle that knows nothing but the beyond. I can step outside and walk the length of the corridors till my feet hurt and the sweat slosh in my shoes, and still it would not tire. I imagine the evening, alone, marijuana, sunk in the couch with my feet thrown across another, a book sprawled across my lap, my hands spilling limply over the armrests, the lights from the television dancing in my bleary half-closed eyes. Bliss.
On Trade and Trump’s Tariffs – Part 3
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Unless one is a hermit or is marooned on an uninhabited island, trade is
what everyone does. Even children voluntarily trade cards, marbles, toys,
etc., wi...
4 hours ago