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Privileged to be In love With an amazing brilliant supportive funny finer than a motherfuck Black woman and I wanna celebrate our love in the pseudo privacy of my personal internet corner and that’s about all I got to say about that
Books may look like nothing more than words on a page, but they are actually an infinitely complex imaginotransference technology that translates odd, inky squiggles into pictures inside your head.
And engages each of us
In the greatest,
The most intense
Of our chosen struggles.
Octavia Butler (via dharmasimulation)
yes ma’am, it does.
We knew that the air was a light, the speckled light of Nothingness.
We will gather images and images of images up til the last, which is blank. This one we will agree on.
'The artist must take sides.'
The Sun is ours. The earth will be ours.
Tower of the sea, you will go on singing.
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The years march forward, even as the seasons, days, hours, minutes and seconds cycle around, consistent with the rest of nature and other natural processes and cycles. That the years stack up and move into the future in only one direction gives us the very strategic illusion of progress and hierarchy over the “past” and no tangible access to the future. In a proper time period, past present future feed into and define each other dynamically. We have innate abilities that allow us to challenge the time structures they have indoctrinated us with.
Jazz is a white term to define black people. My music is black classical music.
NEW ITEMS UP ON 000SPORTWEAR.US
wait, what? did we actually need further confirmation? unless your a racist or self-hating internalized racist idiot, you already knew this and no further confirmation was needed. Especially not from “People” magazine. foh.
A new color. A totally alien, unique, nameless thing, half seen, half felt or…tasted. A blaze of something frightening, yet overwhelmingly, compelling.
A half known mystery beautiful and complex. A deep, impossibly sensuous promise.
I have the impression of moving in the shadow of syllables, in regions before secrets, where language cannot yet answer the call of thought, in swamps where you risk sinking with every breath.
From the wound to the wound.
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