I'm at these rallies, still, same old signs, same old chants, but goddamn if the faces aren't all new. Used to be I'd see Margaret, or old man Henderson, you know, the ones who were there for Vietnam, for AIDS, for *everything*. Now it’s just these kids, bless their earnest little hearts, and I feel this weird... alienation. Like, my body is right there, doing the thing, but my internal state is observing the scene as if through a thick pane of glass. It’s a fucking strange thing to be, I don't know, a ghost at your own fucking revolution.