Down the milky corridors of fog, starless scenery, the rubble of ocean's breath, that lone figure strolling, gathering about him without shame a small flood of damages, concessions to a frailty that was his long before he knew what he must do or what he must be, and now, with his hand outstretched as if to greet the future, he comes close and pours out to me the subtlety of his meaning, and I see him, my long-lost uncle, great and golden in the sudden sunlight, who predicted that he would reach over the years and be with me and that I would be waiting.
The Progressive Impersonator Martin O’Malley wants to be the liberal alternative to Hillary Clinton. It's a good strategy for an actual liberal.
The Redline of March Overheard on email: Slate’s copy desk rounds up the month’s style and grammar rulings.
Da-Da-Da-DAT-Dat, Da-Da-Da How the John Williams of TV sports wrote CBS’s iconic NCAA theme.