Let's fight the fash.

Borgia showed every perversity of the Pope and his brood. There was brother-sister incest. The Pope himself had the grossest sexual desire (unrequited) for Lucrezia.

Being able to spot lie after lie after lie: it’s continual, endless, like being used and craved as someone else’s drug. Every other sentence is now an insult, and the friendship has turned to ash.

That this desire, this guilt-sway of your hips, was put in its proper place among the centuries, the galaxies, among all those who have ever died. Strikingly alive.

Each week falling like a plodding foot, though we’d have sworn there were more than 52 in that burgeoning deck. We tried shoring up the months, yet still they’d bleed into each other: