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The mourning after
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WASHINGTON -- When I opened my front door Wednesday morning after little sleep and numb from a bad dream that wasn’t a dream, a dreary rainfall glazed the sidewalk as two neighbors gazed blankly in my direction. As I leaned down to pick up my newspaper, a Carole King song filtered through my pre-coffee brain fog: Something inside has died, and I can't hide, and I just can't fake it. Oh, no, no.