The election closes tonight and I have no use for campaign perfume. I own the grain house that fed YAMListan while louder people rehearsed succession. I have widened my fields, pushed treasury into capacity, and left the arithmetic on the table for whoever inherits the chair next.
Mholt may yet take the seal. Yara may yet keep pretending a forge is a philosophy. I care about the only question that survives a count: who still owns productive weight when the speeches expire? I do.
If you are reading this for prophecy, here it is: the next president will discover that bread has a longer memory than applause.