Objects exist and if one pays more attention to them than to people, it is precisely because they exist more than the people. Dead objects are still alive. Living people are often already dead.

As Donald—locked in the bathroom of his hotel—tweeted and shat and shat and tweeted, his hat and hair—nearly fused into a single mass from many long and sweaty public appearances—discussed the state of Donald’s campaign for President of the United States amongst themselves from where they had been abandoned behind the nightstand.

“I’m going to have the entire New York Times lined up against a wall and shot,” the hat said. “From the Editor right down to the lowliest paper boy, that crippled one that has to have his mom drive him around.”

“A tax return was bound to get out,” the hair said.

“I’ll have her shot too,” the hat said.

“Who.”

“The mom. The mom of that asshole crippled kid.”

“I was going to decide when we leaked the tax returns. Just some of the good ones. I had it planned after the second debate if we can’t control him again.” The hat shivered and stiff strands of the hair quivered along with it.

“Stop doing that,” the hair snapped.

“I have to have you up my ass all day long,” the hat said. “You just stuffed up in there. Can’t I have a break at night?”

“You think I like it any better?” the hair asked. “I can’t breathe down here.”

“You don’t breathe, idiot.”

“Don’t be a Hillary. You know what I mean.”

They struggled in silence to get away from each other.

“It’s no use,” the hair said. “We’ll just have to wait until he’s done. I can hear him laughing in there. Fuck knows what damage he’s doing.”

“The peanut-munching morons love his tweets. What could he say to turn them off now?”

“He could endorse Hillary,” the hair said darkly.

“He could play that off as just a joke. Or say he got hacked. No one hacks Twitter accounts, but the press lap up that excuse every time.” They both laughed derisively.

“What if he dies in there?” the hair asked after a minute or so of silence.

“He’s not going to die,” the hat said.

“But what if he did? That’s the way he’ll go, you know. Shitting and tweeting. What will happen to us?”

“We still have Ivanka. Or Junior. One of them would take care of us. Maybe put us in a fancy museum,” the hat said.

“You really think so?” the hair asked.

“The Donald J. Trump Museum of Classy Trump Stuff,” the hat mused.

Donald farted explosively in the bathroom and groaned.