I’m not optimistic about anything changing at the level of the U.S. government. Power still answers to its corporate handlers—whether they’re wearing the badge of the Military Industrial Complex, the sheen of Silicon Valley, or the white coat of Big Pharma. The architecture stays the same; only the branding rotates.

And yet, somehow, I haven’t written off my own small sphere. I still hold a sliver of belief that I can alter my personal trajectory. Emma Goldman’s warning keeps circling back: “When we can’t dream any longer we die.”

So don’t give me real flowers. Give me the artificial ones—the ones that don’t wilt, the ones that don’t pretend to be alive. They’re closer to the truth, and they last long enough for me to keep dreaming anyway.