Dear Wigleaf,
 
I'm writing to you from a state of limbo. Something happened last week, but it seems it's only happened for half of us, so now we're all stuck like Stretch Armstrong between the past and the future. Or maybe it's always been this way. Maybe I've always been writing to you from a technicolor taffy pulled between the then and the now and the what could be, all three points rotating around one another, stretching us to our limits while forming us into a more perfect union.
 
My country 'tis of thee, the ultimate confection, that I sing: sweet, addictive, often corrosive. A little of us goes a long way, but we're always peddling more. We're good at getting folks riled up, not so great at dealing with the eventual crash. The world's watching to see how and where we land.
 
And so, dearest Wigleaf, I'm writing to you from inside this star-spangled taffycraft, and you're here too, and in a way, the rest of the world is as well, and we're all pulling apart together, hurtling toward... what?
 
I'll let you know when we get there.
 
Sincerely,
 
Tara