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A dog sits in a window of an ivy-covered row house in the historic Georgetown neighborhood in Washington, DC. A schnauzer. He looks regal but sad, like all of the diplomats and policy wonks and advisers—cold and half dead, warmed only by cognac or wine within his bitter little circle of trust. Just down the cobblestone street, on the main drag of Georgetown, mannequins stare out of the windows of American Apparel and Aeropostale at the beautiful, autoeroticized passersby, striving to emulate the cold sensuality of the window front displays. Flush-faced people down at the Potomac eat dinner at expensive restaurants, talking excitedly about situations, minutiae from their daily lives and relationships, experiences they won’t remember in seven years. Beautiful preppy men and women were sunglasses that denote their class—young party animals park their boats down by the riverfront, blast music and drink beers, trying to lure women onto the boat to party, the kind of girls who hang out by the Potomac looking to get on a boat. A couple rolls around on the grass intertwined, like puppies fighting. The President sits up in the White House and gets debriefed with information that is prescreened for him and will always be conveyed in an upbeat, timely and constructive manner, that will never point to the impossibility of some things ever being resolved. The people conveying this information are the kind of people who want to advance their positions and have given their tacit support to the idea of a hierarchical totem pole where to “move up” one must “pay their dues”.



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