The halls of Congress hold many of our nation's memories. The basement area between the Capitol and Russell holds many more. If democracy is sacred to us, Cups is one of the most authentic places of its worship -- from a moment of quiet contemplation about a draft, to the truly bipartisan chance meeting that becomes a walk-and-talk, to the even truer bipartisanship of a shared wince between strangers when someone spills boiling hot coffee on themselves.

Cups is where our laws are written, our values are affirmed and questioned.

Cups is where the sausage is made, where the coffee is made, where the rotating variety of lunch options are, if not made, at least set out and warmed. Cups is where the authors of our nation's successes and failures alike sell each other bedbug-free mattresses, find roommates, and brace themselves against the remonstrance of the American people with a few precious drops of caffeine, purchased with such meager salaries they may not be able to afford tequila later. Once, I saw a dog there.

Cups is the heart of America. Please save Cups.