Roiling the ever already choppy waters of human politics, Kim and Vlad and Xi and Don, plot with Art on what ought be public, what ought be

private, and what ought be, Mr. President, a tippy-top, top secret and therefore, Donny, for your eyes, only.

Bit characters. In crews, constant, of 280, of them. 280, in every tweet. Like dark matter, the glue, holding the Twitterverse, together. Four presidents.

And Art. For Arthur is but one, of five principal, characters. One greeter. And four … presidents.

Everything changes. And as climates change, men shall migrate, predictably, unpredictably. All matter matters. Particularly, the gray matter in one’s

particular head. Who knew that matter, matters, so much? Who knew? And so was sent for, the prodigal, one.

Had Don only read between lines of handwritings on the walls, of the world. Had he, he would know his wall is, DOA, dead. Had Don only, really,

liked to read. And really read, reports, from his experts. Had Don only gone to walls and read them … really.

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