There is a constant flow of roars and tangled webs waiting
to be touched and untouched by the primitives and the bearing
reds. She leans half awakened by the cause of there needs to be
death in order for new living. There is a very silly white ringed
feather singing outside her window…
It says, “The fight for peace is never over and all things do not
change. They become more stupid, more complex – to the point of
non existing…”.
She raises with her legs; which have stumps at the ends at 90 degree
angles. She walks by planting and replanting movements strung together
into an un-orderly fashions. Her eyes have never reached beyond the
point of exhaustion – always hollow and bearing the color of dark olives.