An imperial message
By 
My email inbox features dozens of message from both Lara and Donald Trump. The latest one really pulls at the heartstrings:
A MESSAGE FROM PRESIDENT TRUMP
My SHAM trial begins tomorrow. Before I head to court, I need to know that EVERY TRUMP LOVING PATRIOT has joined my Advisory board.
The TRUMP ADVISORY BOARD is an elite network of patriots that I know STAND WITH ME no matter what the RADICAL Democrats throw my way.
Will you be one of them, Friend?
My team is locking in the OFFICIAL list of Trump Advisory Board members BEFORE the trial begins and I need to see your name there.
CLAIM SPOT
If you’re reading this right now, it means I need you.
I’m humbly asking YOU to stand with me today as a member of the Trump Advisory Board! >
Please, Friend, time is running out before ANOTHER relentless witch hunt begins.
Thank you,
I have to say I’m actually looking forward to this sham trial, and may even watch some of it now and then (It’s projected to last six weeks, more or less).
The Emperor—so they say—has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door—but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.