she sits sun-kissed by the window. white rays burst around her head, a halo refracting off her glasses. a cigarette streams idly from one hand, a purple highlighter is poised in her other. the cap is ******* off and balanced between her teeth as she runs the ink across the page, murmuring along to the theoretical text beneath her breath. Scottish highland green eyes follow along, digesting, questioning incessantly. she looks up at me, an inquiry flowering on her lips. “don’t you think we’ve outgrown birth metaphors?” she asks. “why can’t we say the revolution ‘explodes’ or ‘blossoms?’” but just think: the very pages of the books we read are given to us by the Earth— wood pulverized to parchment, imparting hope, as if this very planet is tattooing insurrection in its flesh.