Police cars accompany protesters as they march down Woodward Avenue every night, and bright blue-red flashing lights flood the dining room casting a surreal other worldly glow on everything and everyone in it.
At the piano, I play from The Great American Songbook, wondering if it might as well be spring.
I also wonder why it has to be this difficult.
My coach voted for Trump and I was equally open in discussing with him my choice for Clinton. We talked about it for exactly two minutes between a set. That aside, we elected to work together and focus on the serious business of squatting.
Both of us are restless as willow in a windstorm, jumpy as a puppet on a string, starry eyed and vaguely discontented, but only in anticipation of building a better body for the next competition season.