Syroan

The language we speak makes us seem infinitely more deadly than our smiling eyes allow, crying mischief, disloyalty betrayal of the queen. But when a lovestruck queen passes the kingdom's keys to the kinder-king, the knight and the mage are her last hopes; the crusader's virtue is her only chance for her freedom. Can't she see he's made to sweep her off her feet? As her advisor, magician, sage reads for her through old magick in stones and water and cards? Fate sits at the command of no dictator king.

the cost of freedom is minimum wage, wholly economic RENT sending me skittering behind apartment complexes and ballet mirrors to fumble through drag and costumes in the dark to fix voices held prisoner by human error... this is my first taste of Life, invigorating and loving like caresses from a significant other.

While the suburbs sleep simply in their shelters, captivated by capitalist desires, the sprawling black metropolis spreads fingers of racially suggested settlements across the landscape, across marshes dried by the half-bred children of children and abhorred invaders, through lakes and lagoons formed by the paws of (m)animals grappling for a place in a world they work so hard to destroy. The woman-city's many eyes shine from her curvaceous figures, splashing her rebel children who abuse her so freely with life in the darkness. Even in her sorrow at the murder of her infants, she is stronger than hellfire itself and more beautiful