There are so many roots to the tree of anger that sometimes the branches shatter before they bear. Sitting in Nedicks, the women rally before they march, discussing the problematic girls they hire to make them accessible. An almost white counterman passes a waiting brother to serve them first, and the ladies neither notice nor reject the slighter pleasures of their slavery. But I, who am bound by my mirror and my bed, see causes in colour and sex and sit here wondering which I will survive all these liberations.
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