You cling to the ticket like a lifeline, teeth clenched, hissing, you've saved me before so you better save me again. It's a one-way ticket, you scrub it of symbolism. Is this our last hurrah, America. Is this our last cross-country embrace, two thousand miles of farewells before the earth scorches my feet once and for all? Generations have come before you, seen worse, seen better, endured. Who are you to waste what you've been given.
Who are you to demand the city on a hill, then not get buried when it tumbles to the ground?
I pick a window seat. Pack a bag light with content, heavy with fear. Brace yourself for what you might find around the bend.
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