One of the wounded men had a shoeful of blood.

As for me, I felt wretched and helpless, in the darkness, surrounded with angry waves, whose noise deafened me.

It is hard not to give in and accept the verdicts of Voltaire that history is the lie commonly agreed upon and of Henry Ford that history is bunk. When faced with the Marxist fantasies of Srejovic or Childe, or with the psychohistorical hallucinations of Julian Jaynes, I realize that history is never a science and rarely an art, and the historian who pretends to the former loses the latter.

I woke up angered that the reproductive health of all of us -- LGBQ/T, straight, cis-gender -- is not valued and our rights not ensured.