I need to detox. Pull the plug out of the wall. Turn off MSNBC. Put the New York Times away unread. Step off the treadmill of the Daily Trump Show. (Has anyone ever taken up so much oxygen with so little to show?)

It really is, I think, time to take some time away, to smell the roses (It’s getting on to rose time here in the east.)  Spend some time reading Marcus Aurelius and sit in some quiet with a few trees, regardless of our genuine concern about the future of a nuclear winter or a Pence-Ryan Administration or even whether eating another breakfast of scrambled eggs is going to raise my cholesterol.

The problem, of course, with even two weeks of self-imposed Nirvana is that, as we know too well, there must be a return. For the moment the best I can hope for is to take my rage (against the machine, against the dying of the light, against greed and corruption) and, perhaps, put it on the page.

Meanwhile, I will continue to work very hard at not lashing out at the next person who wanders into my path with their nose pressed against an iPhone, smile warmly when I receive rejections of my work, and support all candidates and the ACLU and the Poynter Institute.

But OM-ish breaths are the order of the day, before, during, and after detox.