Trump’s hand wavers, Trump’s mind dances erratically, Trump’s decisions driven by whims and tantrums rather than plans or principles. Trump is a storm with no center, a flame with no hearth. Still, the people endure. They march forward, bent but unbroken, though their hearts ache and their loads grow heavier with each passing day. The promise of peace rings hollow in their ears, a mirage on the horizon of their struggles. The world lumbers on, a weary giant dragged down by the ineptitude of its so-called shepherds. But endure they must, for what choice remains? Endurance, after all, is the currency of those who live in times like these.