Words Written In Notebooks By Protesters

Into the night with a bag of ashes, sweating, looking for the river, I am uncertain if death will find the sand and water. All around me the forest is exporting death too as I run blind towards the river with these ashes. The forest and I both export death, but with opposite intentions. It feels the resistance in the ashes. A line of police wait at the riverbank. They are silent and tired. They just want to go home. I dig my feet into the dirt and run to the sound of rapids.
Sound loses its orientation in the dark when you are lost and out of breath. You can pretend to move forward but you are preoccupied with sleep. I fell asleep in the forest.
Into a plastic cage with a bag of food on the floor, glazed, looking at my broken hands, I am uncertain if death found the sand and water. All around me, inscribed in the plastic of the cage, the words of the State. I passed a line of prisoners on the way inside. They were silent and tired. All protesters caught exporting evolution through the river, they just wanted to go home.
        “What is the line between us and police?”, I remembered this sentence waiting there in the cage. Something I had said.
Today is dying. The system. I am one of the early mourners. We can  infect the specific kind of corporate control of reality enforcing homogenization globally. Our subjectivity of resistance, resistances, pollute the clean chemical level of social suspension. The river is escape.
The words of the State inscribed into the plastic bars of that cage were the words of the elite and not only the words of the State. The words written in notebooks by protesters meeting around camps in the forest are burned to become the opposite. They become the collective and protected. They are delivered to the river in bags. Every word. Collected down river where the system does not extend, the words are published and catalogued.

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