Is this about the internal prism of interpretation. Or is it about the plastic the prism has become. That once was glass. That once produced the rainbows on the walls, the sheets, across the face of a lover. Or is this about the lover. And everything that has been loved. And those things not loved, but happening. Or is this about what’s happening. Things happening that must be stopped. Or is it about activism. And the long road ahead. The one no longer less traveled because we are so many of us. One of many roads. Leading to the future. Is this all about the future. Or must the past appear. Is this the past. It is. Without us doing what must be done, there may not be a future. That we recognize. Or want. Or want to pass on. To our children. This is about the children. All of them. Every single one. This is no lie.
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