we want a quiet revolution and one with no meaning. we have our doubts and shall remain so. a battleground must forever defend the battleground state: "an overwhelming question on your plate" ...if the contents are clear and manageable, strive to resist managing them. This for the sake of the quiet revolution.
We are the sisters of the low cross.
wombs are shelters and fat bellies birth and defend our perimeter, don't mind our genitalia, however its form. we will sit down to a fire of our own making. In a loose gathering, gentle making our fence, and wearing each others clothes. Here and here, it seems we welcome. don't fish, and are not caught. But perimeters must be maintained, semi-permiable. Into the long morning with our medicines, hold our hand. We stand loose, we stay.
you can kill your own ideas and mine. The detritus of these deaths makes the sanctuary for adaptation. Here is the thing: no leader to fuck shit up... put things into things into things. rip and layer, also whatever. thoughts on thoughts for years and they will not leave, a history here is made mountainous...learn to tend it. Almost nothing really discarded, I have watched this proccess long/// We like the trash. We are the sisters of the low cross.