The shake that passes will echo. The wave that recedes will come back. The mountain that rumbles will roar.
So here is why I write what I do: We all have futures. We all have pasts. We all have stories. And we all, every single one of us, no matter who we are and no matter whatβs been taken from us or what poison weβve internalized or how hard weβve had to work to expel it β β we all get to dream.
In the future, as in the present, as in the past, black people will build many new worlds. This is true. I will make it so. And you will help me.
I remembered Nahadoth's lips on my throat and fought to suppress a shudder, only half succeeding. Death as a consequence of lying with a god wasn't something I had considered, but it did not surprise me. A mortal man's strength had its limits. He spent himself and slept. He could be a good lover, but even his best skills were only guesswork - for every caress that sent a woman's head into the clouds, he might try ten that brought her back to earth.
You are what your creators and experiences have made you, like every other being in this universe. Accept that and be done; I tire of your whining.
For all those that have to fight for the respect that everyone else is given without question.
