The American government is built on the boring, beautiful premise that the executive branch cannot simply build whatever it wants, wherever it wants, using money it wasn't given.
There is a particular kind of cruelty in the way power treats the machinery of democracy: it doesn’t always smash the machine; sometimes, it just gums up the gears until the clock runs out.
When you grow up in Flint, you learn early that the people in charge always have a different set of rules for themselves than they do for the people they claim to represent.
When a man who ascended to the Speaker’s gavel by accident suddenly scrambles to freeze the laws of physics, pay attention to what he is terrified of losing.
There is a particular kind of vertigo that comes from watching a man who once led the Department of Government Efficiency decide that the most "efficient" way to govern is to simply buy the governors.
There is a particular kind of silence that only money can buy. It isn’t the peaceful quiet of a snowfall over a dormant cornfield; it is the heavy, suffocating silence of a non-disclosure agreement.