Closed signs on government, open tabs on chaos: trade wars, street fury, and a stock market grinning with gold teeth.
The shutdown smells like motel carpeting after a hurricane—sour, mildewed, and oddly permanent. Congress has stacked folding chairs in the Republic’s lobby and hung a handwritten sign: OUT TO LUNCH, BACK AFTER THE FUNDRAISER.
Agencies blink like dying fluorescent…
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