Blow on a dandelion - is he? isn't he? is he? isn't he? - until it begins to look like him in a fuzzy, funny way. Nobody knows when he caught the bug. Nobody knows if it's let him go. The secrets swirl mistily around that great, white house and the man - his irate yellow hair brought to its knees by the sheer weight of the tyranny hanging beneath. Blow on a dandelion - will he? won't he? will he? won't he? The seeds, like the un-balloted votes of the suppressed, blowing through Tuesday, through COVID queues, catching in the nostrils of the guiltless privileged. A tishoo. A tishoo. We all fall down. Yes. We all fall down in algorithmic sequence in the thrall of our own tiny clicks that we didn't know were important. Blow on a dandelion - can we? can't we? can we? can't we think independently? It's so hard to tell with all the mirrors and the elephants and choking on smoke from his great social pipe. He's jolly and threatening and so very unreadable and we're just waiting to see what we made of our world. We blow and we wish or we blow and we wait for the clouds to disperse or for the seeds to run out or damn it. Just for clarity.