Trump wanders the West Wing on his last night, remembering the good times. The chair where he tweeted. The toilet where he tweeted. The desk where thought about tweeting when he had to sign some dumb paper. He sighs, knowing it’s over. Then he puts on the caps lock, just for fun.

Trump calls down an empty hallway. “Anybody want to sign my yearbook?”

Trump up late tonight making as many long distance calls as he can. He smiles with satisfaction. “By the time the bill comes, I’ll be long gone.” The pleasure of getting away with it never gets old.

Trump is inspired to downsize by the move. He wraps a red tie around his neck, lets it drape down over his belly, below his belt. “Does this spark joy?” he asks himself. “Does this spark joy?” He no longer knows.

Four months later, his actual life is indistinguishable from this thread. https://twitter.com/mysterysolvent/status/1388184669821313026