“Jeff Sessions, who led a foreign policy advisory council for the Trump campaign, said he did not recall an encounter with another campaign adviser, Carter Page, who has said he told Sessions last year that he was preparing to visit Russia.”
Associated Press, 11/14/17

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I don’t have any recollection of participation in any sessions with a “Jeff.” Is that what you’re asking? Presumably there were meetings, but things were happening so fast during the campaign that I cannot confirm that I was at those meetings, whether I was kissing Sergey Kislyak after one of those meetings, or whether this is all a hallucination.

There was a campaign. I am sure of that. There was this pumpkin-headed Harvest God with hair made of corn silk. I recall being told that there should be no other gods before Him, and if there were, I do not remember those other gods. But it’s all a blur. And I might just be someone watching news flashes on a television bolted to the cinderblock wall of a small back room in a large institution.

Yes, it is conceivable that I am someone else entirely. I could be Seth Jefferson, inmate at a psychiatric hospital in Maryland, and victim of a prolonged delusion in which I am Attorney General of the United States. Or I could be an elf who lives in a tree and bakes cookies.

The Democrats were probably colluding with the Russians. It seems more likely, since traditionally Republicans have been anti-Russia. It is possible that the Democrats made contact with the Russians, using my mind as a portal, because I do not know what happens in there.

I have so many meetings with so many low-level people who might be figments of my imagination that I can’t remember any of the people or any of the meetings. If anyone said anything in any of those meetings, I have no recollection of their words. In my mind, the past is a kaleidoscope of random images with a psychedelic soundtrack.

You tell me that someone said “Putin” in one of those meetings. If I did recall hearing that, then I might have heard it differently. I might have heard, “I’ll be puttin’ these cookies in the oven and baking them at 350 degrees.” But I have no recollection of that.

I might not even be here right now.

I recuse myself. After all, I might be some cartoon character who never worked in government at all. Or I might be buckled up in a straightjacket, sitting slumped in the corner of a padded room, dreaming of someone else’s life.