I can’t really in
some direction, acute privilege, like most have to respect us. A common
practice on a common belief, but what hath he earned? I died early, metaphysical
deaths, born to a hectic scenario. Watched it. Felt it. Received it. To witness
some activity, tears the soul, and disproves what normality is. To side with
consensus. Consensus is partial. Something has to be said of the best brains on
the job. But I was writing about Africa in memoir. I felt superficial. I don’t
know what I need to know; I know struggle, beauty, neither government, nor
kingdom; I know the survival thrust, the women in aesthetic, the glory of the
origin. I know the pain without its root; I know color, without humanity; I know
humanity, despite, color. I don’t know motivation, aside from opposition, where
true motivation must be pure, undiluted, freedom as it appears biblically. I
know smaller smiles, smaller faces, turned ruthless, losing access to sky-being.
