west side story

When the wall fell, we laughed like harpies. The curtain closed and Tuesdays were Saturday night drink specials, running through the streets, eyes closed, fists balled. We cut through life like we cut through fog - on rainy nights and Saturday mornings.

When the war ended, we danced to the tune of Soviet horns, collapsed in tired heaps of flesh in alleys along already narrow streets, breathing the wet air - offering penace to the Deity.

When the towers fell, we cringed with delight. Monoliths crumpling like tin cans under the feet of something beyond the void. Something beneath the stars.

We are the last of a dying breed. The vanguard cut off. We are women, children, places, things.

We are asserting our voice.

We are the feral ascendent.

We are asserting our voice.

We are the feral ascendent.