It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.

People in free societies don't have to fear the pathology of the state. We create our own frenzy, our own mass convulsions, driven by thinking machines that we have no final authority over. The frenzy is barely noticeable most of the time. It's simply how we live.

There's never a dearth of reasons to shoot at the President.

We commit our crimes at night and reveal ourselves in the high noon of studio lights.

Something is always happening, even on the quietest days and deep into the night, if you stand a while and look.

And what's the point of waking up in the morning if you don't try to match the enormousness of the known forces in the world with something powerful in your own life?

I'm not reclusive at all. Just private.