The thing about living in a fascist state is, you don’t necessarily wake up every day thinking “I live in a fascist state.” Most days you wake up and go through your daily routines; you listen to music on the radio; you go to the movies; you complain about the price of gas; you look forward to big celebrations; if you have a job, you go; if you can afford it, you plan vacations; you check the weather report for the chance of rain or snow; you engage in whatever level usage of social media you’ve become accustomed to; you play games on your phone; you watch streaming TV channels; you listen to your spouse tell you about their day; you tell your spouse about your day; you make plans for the weekend, if you don’t work weekends; you listen to your spouse cry because one her clients died in face down in the street when he had a warm bed but that’s not where the drugs were; you take note of the social outrage at one the death of a homeless woman in a city that has criminalized being human and living outside out of fear and needing to blame someone for everything; you look to make sure the front door is locked between you and the random house search you know is coming because the leadership in the city is complicit; you think about getting drunk, but know it won’t solve anything; you feed the dogs; you order a pizza and make sure to tip the driver; you know watching the State of the Union won’t do anything but keep you up all night and decide read multiple breakdowns the following morning over black coffee, at which point it occurs, once again, that you live in a fascist state.