The President Who Wasn’t There
All I can think about is my hands: the surfaces they’ve touched, the doorknobs they’ve turned, the itches they’ve scratched (always, invariably, on the face). I think about the last time my hands were scrubbed clean with soap and water; I think about my phone, too, which is basically an extension of my hand, a greasy repository for the world’s grubbiness. I feel that I am no exception in this regard, that this is just the way it is now.
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