Imagine a world where Seymour Hersch didn't exist.
What's truly scary is that the stuff he's saying here sounds, well, a little nuts, like the guy in clashing plaids and fingerless gloves who parks his shopping cart at the McDonalds at the Port Authority Bus Terminal and nurses one cup of coffee for four hours while he fiercely underlines passages in a three-day-old copy of the New York Post, but...
I Believe the Crazy Guy. That's how weird it's gotten.
How drenched in cognitive dissonance have the last four years been? How close do I sometimes get to just giving it up entirely, surrendering up my rage just to make my brain stop hurting? How huge is the temptation just to enter Rocketman's Zone! Sy Hersch flaps and caws, an atavistic Dodo, but I can't hear, I can't tell One from Zero anymore. My chest fills and I stand crying, not a thing in my head, just feeling natural....
I care. I don't care. I care that I don't care, but I don't care that I care. One Equals Zero.
I Believe the Crazy Guy. That's how weird it's gotten.
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