Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

My witchy hair so furious and alive stands up and crackles like a scratched 78 Galli-Curci singing from the moon Sempre libera! It’s an owl’s nest twigs and feathers and bones and rain a straw broom forgotten in a corner but still capable of spontaneous combustion so watch out. There’s joy in taking your final shape if it’s what you’re meant to be. Who needs color anyway when the ocean in winter is so voracious and so beautiful?