He does not look well, but did he ever? Steve Bannon’s eyes seep, weep, and rheum between their heavy folding triple-parenthesis bags, blinking labiae, lonely dunes of flaking skin. His nose dimples out like some peak of rubble in the crags of a bomb-blasted city. His lips vanish into the puffy slit-scar of his mouth. His cheeks blotch and billow; you could pinch one of them out, mold it like plasticine between your fingertips, and when you let go it would take half a day for his flesh to squelch back to its ordinary shape. His forehead is unspeakable. His hair flops like dead reeds after an oil spill. His neck is like a frog’s. His breasts pucker. His pale belly aches. His hams scrawn, greased pistons, spiky with little hairs they shiver. His feet are bleeding. He has come to this hilltop. Around him the scraggly grass, and the senseless tinfoil trees, and the darkening sky. Like everyone else, he has come to watch the eclipse.