A master. A woman. An alienated one.
One not alienated. The apocalypse. The after. One wakes up, thinks for the first time, glimpses the sleeping plain, without trees, the sky black with uncertainty, the moon hidden by shame. It is perceived. We have a name, and hopefully a story not to tell. We look back, anger takes us. We get revenge. Death is for real, the ultimate loss. You cry and the tears are wasted. It is reborn. Dry salt on the face, Burning sun in the eyes, when shy is born. Trees are planted, minds are watered, breasts streaked with wounds are licked, they roll in the mud. But what about the screen, doesn't it come back on? Who supports us, who tells us how to do it? Who's in charge now? It's us.