The 11th of November is visible at the not-so-starry sky, coming in to land for a long sleep to metamorphose in a 12th of November. For morning birds like me, at this hour the day already carries a lullaby with it, covered in woolly blankets.
The sound of this lullaby should be the clattering of arms touching the asphalt or the mud-caked ground as their soldiers throw them away, today being the bloody 11th of November, Remembrance Day, in which we ought to celebrate the end of the hostilities of the First World War. But there seems something wrong with the tone of this lullaby of peace. There’s a crack in it. Through this crack another tone has crept in, a tone which has been slumbering in the corners of America, the corners of our world, for a very long time, a tone which has exploded two days ago. The tone of hate. The tone of Donald Trump.