Yet again, I wrote, and yet again, my browser crashed and all was erased. Then, as if wise to my rough-drafting offline, our power flickered like a mad disco ball for two hours and then went out completely.
And so, yet again, I have nothing for you. Except that I'm in an ebony-black home, in bed with a nine-year-old whose class had a terrific, appropriate talk about everything going on in Paris and Beirut and because of ISIS and he needs a bit more tonight. And I understand that because the world is hard. I am tired but I am here. Lucky we are.