Intense dreams last night in Nairobi.
Dreams of safe havens with story-checks before you could enter, only the most widely acknowledged versions of stories and their tellers allowed in. We began inscribing the truths we had lived in our skin, to meet in dark back rooms to reconstruct our history in these new places.
Sitting at lunch with SJ, he starts giggling about some Liz Phair song on the radio, and then launches into this Explain-Like-I’m-Five-Esque breakdown of his reappropriated lyrics. I started drawing. All was well.