standing stout vaguely aware of fading allotted time when instead of churning out children she’s commanding a global economy, driving policy, defending desire, she doesn’t belong in my world bearing the brunt of our tiresome human condition attuned to petrified customs, bitter and prolonged profane fantasies of girls being ladies and boys being men, a spirit pilgrim defiling terrified traditionalists as their brains are pulled out on the way to lunatic lookout, she’s a painter of dreams, a breeding ground …
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