And you will ask: why doesn’t his poetry speak of dreams and leaves

There’s nothing you can say that will bring back people who’ve been murdered by exactly the same kind of person who has murdered exactly the same kind of people before and before and again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will console their families, or their friends, or their communities, or the millions of people who could have been them, were almost them, continue to be at risk of having the same horrors done to them.

But why, when given the opportunity to not make things worse, do we choose instead to forge ahead under a misinformed banner of civility and progressiveness?

Why, when people are grieving, would we choose that very moment to make all this about us?