She was a history junkie. A doctor. phd.
Examining old cultures and wars was her rush.
Anthropology was her fix.
She found what she needed to know while tabbing through her cerebellum's internal ledger, set to siddhartha style scrolling, which kept her mind rolling. Her attention was set to its highest ceiling, steady conscious, you know the feeling. Urgent were these matters she had to attend. She wanted to bum rush the majora with the minora. Do the hundred yard dash toward the cash money stash.
She liked to focus on that heated point where marginalized culture unite, center of the heart of the body of any creative work in motion. After studying each slide of her mind, she would leave it behind. Leave no trace. She set fire to the scrolls after thumbing through the seat of memory with a fine-toothed gnosis comb. You know, right beside the garden gnome. They both stood there, in the corn rows of her dome. And watched the paper separate at its perforations, fold up toward the center as the edges caught fire. The scarecrow shuddered. The crows, they flew away. The margins moved in to drop trails of smouldering ash. The paper chase got chased right out of town.
The revolution was on, like a wheel that's been trued. Effortless and unglued. This was where her mind joined the mind of the people. Territorial boundaries became blurred like some communist conspiracy coming into view. Empowerment via numbers was mathematically guaranteed. They hunted the bloated dumpster raccoons until they were treed. Reduced odds down to one, aka: no other possibility.
She prepared herself for rain. Premonition kept her sane.
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