This Is How Democracy Dies

Today, as a collection of low level political hacks gather in their various state capitols to make official the election of a man who lost the popular vote by nearly three million voters, I am trying to not feel depressed.

And failing. I am reminded of a not very well known poem with a really, really famous closing couplet.

We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar ~ The Hollow Men by T. S. Eliot