And that’s the shit that steals my sleep at night, you know? Not Trump’s idiot tweets, not the new flavor of scandal swirling in Washington. It’s the bodies piling up in places I’ve never been but can’t stop seeing when I close my eyes. And that’s a raw, unshakable horror that dwarfs all the rhetorical posturing. Left, right, red, blue—none of that means a damn thing when the street is stained with blood and the screams echo across the horizon.

We can debate policy and personality until we’re all blue in the face. We can pick apart his motives, his ego, his questionable alliances, or his love for gold-plated everything. But do not confuse those debates with the raw, unstoppable fact that every life spared in Gaza matters. Every day that the bombs don’t fall on kids is a day we inch closer to preserving whatever shred of humanity we’ve got left in us.

That’s where I stand. Let’s keep going, keep pushing, keep raging for peace—even if it’s delivered by the unlikeliest messenger. Because at the end of the day, the scoreboard of politics is dwarfed by the infinite magnitude of a single saved life. And if Trump’s got a piece in that puzzle—even by accident—I say that’s one hell of a better accident than we’ve seen in a long damn time.