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homogrimoire-archive · 4 years

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Exhausted Wings / Good Luck

I wanted to explore how pacts (found in the Drakengard series) could work in the RWBYverse, since its just all magic. I also just want clover to live, but I also wanted to explore this. Besides, the literal binding of two souls has some nice romantic potential.

AO3 Link to Full Fic

Chapter 1: Exhausted Wings / Unknown Tunes

In an instant, the cold and desolate white landscape was marred by the crimson stain of warm blood. The bloody weapon was yanked out of the body it pierced with a bit of resistance, just as Tyrian liked it. He only wished he could see the look on Clover’s face. A dying man’s eyes were his most favorite to look at, besides the eyes of his Queen, of course. If it was any consolation, he could see Qrow’s eyes. Shock, fear, regret, and the faintest hint of hatred. An absolutely delectable concoction of emotions that gave Tyrian an absolutely euphoric feel.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” Qrow said as he lunged at the chaotic killer. As he dodged the pathetic punch, he could more clearly see the shift in Qrow’s emotions. Hatred was on full display now. Mixed in was also desperation and despair, another delectable sight to the scorpion. Tyrian had the feeling he would be sleeping well with some wonderful memories of Atlas in the coming nights. With an Atlas airship nearing, he decided to leave the black bird with a few choice words and a maniacal laugh. He knew he would have another chance to cause that bird some more pain. A moment later he heard a blood-curdling wail that made him smile from ear to ear. He had the feeling he would be sleeping very well. He considered it rather unfortunate that such emotions were difficult to produce in his conquests. With that, he continued his trek across the snow and ice to see what more chaos he could induce.

Raven… sensed something, and it concerned Qrow. Odd, she thought. He is a grown man and he abandoned the tribe. He can do whatever the hell he wants. If he ends up dying, then it’s his own fault for letting himself be so weak. she reasoned with herself . Despite this logic, she still felt that she wanted to see what was happening to him. He obviously wasn’t dead, yet, at least, as she knew she could still open a portal to him. Whatever he was going through was intense and distressful. She could tell that much. The Maiden’s powers had a strange interaction with her semblance. Not only could she also open a portal to their location, she could get a sense of how they were feeling in the moment and the state of their aura, among other things. She was also able to tell that he was somewhere near Atlas. Hmm… his aura is low, and in immense distress, I perhaps have something to gain. I could finish him off and show what happens when people abandon the tribe, their family. If I’m lucky, he’ll be near some dust shipments I can raid. With her reasoning sound, and nothing better to do, she notified her subordinates that she had business to take care of. She returned to her the privacy of her tent and stepped through a crimson-black portal.

She told herself this was a mission to help unify the tribe, a noble goal, but deep down, locked away in her subconscious, she was concerned. Qrow was her brother. They had grown up together and survived all that life had thrown at them thus far. Why? She would think on quiet nights when pondering on Qrow and his decision to leave the tribe. Why would he leave the tribe? Why would he leave me? Why? We had been through so much together. We grew strong together. We grew strong together until he decided to be weak . Corrected another part of her mind. To her, that part of her mind was the one she should listen to. To her, it was logical and would ensure the survival of the tribe. To her, it had no weaknesses.

In the midst of his tears, he heard the telltale sound of his sister’s portal crimson-black behind him. “Now is not the time Raven.” he said without turning his back to face her, voice straining. Just my luck. Clover’s dead, Tyrian has escaped, and now Raven shows up.

“You really have let yourself become weak.” she said, voice almost as cold as the Ice Queen. Qrow could see the airship landing, though he didn't really care. No one needed him anymore. Team RWBY is stronger than I’ll ever be. They’ll be better off without my bad luck anyways. Oz still has his mind locked away. James has taken a dive off the deep end and wants him captured so he could just be thrown into a jail cell. James… what happened to you, you monster.

“Can't you ever do something useful-”

“Halt!” cried the people in atlas uniforms who had their guns aimed at the avian siblings. But before they could do anything else, a slash of energy knocked them out, and a thrown sword knocked out the pilot through the windshield. As she walked over to retrieve the sword embedded in the military-grade windshield, Qrow realized something…

“Raven. Help me form a pact.” Their tribe had a story. It was the story of the origin of their tribe. A pact was first made by two people who became lovers. These two men, strangers at the time, were said to be near death as grimm surrounded them. However, they made a pact to live on, with each other, for they had no one else. With their strength renewed, and more powerful than ever, they killed the hoard of grimm. As they traveled, they allowed other strong souls, pact or not, to join them in their journey to survive. And the rest is history People could obtain power by binding themselves to another and forming a strong connection. That was its moral, hence the emphasis on family within the tribe. Those connections with each other are what made the tribe strong. However, the specifics on how to form a pact were lost to time. What remains can be found in their wedding ceremonies.

That was, until they met Ozpin, and told them a more complete version of the story, including how to perform the ritual. It demanded the blood of the people who would form a pact, words with meaning to the pact partners, physical contact, and a great deal of magic. It could not only bring back someone on the brink of death, it could bring them back from death itself. However, it was also very dangerous, resulting in the death of the pact partners if done wrong. This was also typically formed by one who had magical abilities, and one who did not. The one who did not have magical abilities would often bear a mark on their body and lose something about them. Oz told them this in order to gain their trust. Granted, he still withhold other information, like how their tribe does not actually descend from that original tribe. They were also wiped out when the Brothers Grimm left long ago. He imagined that neither would be able to perform it since they couldn't do magic, and had no idea how it would interact with aura and semblances. But regardless, here was Raven, a maiden with the magic capable of forming a pact.

“And why should I? I have half a mind to just finish you off here and now, and I’m not even sure it will work.” she said as she pulled the sword out of the windshield.

“I don’t care. I’ll return with you to the tribe, and follow your every order.” He could see that caught her attention. It’s a win-win for both of us. Either I’ll end up dead and be one less thorn in her side, or Clover will be alive and I’ll be at her every beck and call.

“Alright then. Get what we need.” Qrow went to grab Kingfisher, and the bloody Harbinger. He could feel the tears coming as he passes Clover’s lifeless body, Harbinger in hand. He used Kingfisher to make a cut on his arm to gather some blood. He could hardly stand to look at his sister’s face as he gave her the weapons.

“Any request for the words?”

“Good luck.” It wasn’t much to work with, but it’s all he really had. He moved to lie down next to Clover, and took his still warm hand into his. He could really feel the warm tears rolling down his face now. Raven didn’t say anything about it as she crossed the weapons at her chest so that dead and live man’s blood was touching.

“Someday,

I knew

That I

Would find

You Whom

I Would love in the days of the new ”

Qrow let out a small chuckle, almost a sob, as tears streamed down his face. This was the beginning of a wedding song. Heh. Damn you Raven. I always did want to get married. His body began to feel odd, now that he noticed it, and the sky above him was turning to a reddish-purple too. I’m not dead, so I guess that's a plus.

“May

I find you in the new life

Where

Can exist without the fear of my death.”

Now he was really crying, trying to at least hold back his sobs. At least funeral songs are an appropriate thing to cry at. A funeral song meant to be sung by the one who lost their love. And since he was crying, that meant he was still alive, and the ritual was persisting. The sky was a deep read now, almost like his eyes. What he did not see was how a sliver of the horizon was now a brilliant green, much like Clover’s eyes. Raven could see, and had to admit it was an awe-filled display of her power. She could also see that the blood stained weapons were also glowing with magic, her brother and the dead guy too.

“Sing a song with me

We can find new life

One away from Strife

They can hold their own

Loan

Loan us your loved luck

With you our lives won't suck

And with this farewell,

Hope

That

You

May find

All your hopes and dreams,

Yes,

And for this I wish

You good luck.”

How Raven came up with that song, he did not know, and neither did she. Perhaps it was the magic. They could feel the ritual finalizing. Raven could see something rather interesting. Their auras were beginning to mix. Red met green, and green met red. And Raven dropped the weapons. They were incredibly hot now. And the sky was an odd gradient of red and green. In a sudden blast and a flash of light, the pact process was complete. Qrow felt… revitalized. His body wasn't sore. He checked his scroll, and found both his and found both his and Clover’s aura at one-hundred percent. Just to be safe, he checked for a pulse on the still unconscious Clover, and found steady beat. He felt ecstatic, though only for a moment. He was honor bound to follow his sister now, for better or worse. Considering all he was leaving behind, he felt that it was for the better.

“What now, big sister?” He wiped the smile off his face. She doesn’t deserve to see it.

“Know any places to get some dust?”

Clover feels himself begin to awake. His eyes are still adjusting. The sky looks… red? It is cloudless now and he swears he can see two black dots flying to somewhere in the red sky. It looks less red now. He moves his hand to his stomach, and remembers. He jumps up. Is this the afterlife?! He thinks, eyes wide and adjusted now. He looks around and finds that his uniform still has a gash in it and is colored crimson like the ground beneath him. There's also a nasty scar. He also finds some Atlas officers lying on the ground and an airship nearby. This is not the afterlife. Weapon. I need a weapon! If he was still alive, that meant he could die again, and the downed officers were not a good sign. In the snow, he found the bloody Harbinger. He scanned the area and found no threat. He proceeded cautiously to the aircraft, on edge for any threats. He searched it and found nothing odd, aside from a damaged windshield. Robyn. He moved quickly to search he downed airship for her, but as he turned around, he was met with an arrow to the forehead.

"What happened here?!” she said as the man toppled back, dropping Harbinger. As he toppled back, he hit one of the seats, causing some of the items in the storage above him to fall onto him.

“Tell me NOW, or I’ll make this one break your aura.” she threatened as she loaded an explosive arrow.

“I-I don’t know,” he said as he was shaking his head, “I thought I was dead! Qrow, Tyrian, and I were in a fight after we crashed, then Qrow broke my Aura, a-and then Tyrian killed me with Harbinger! I don't know what’s happening either!” Please believe me, please believe me.

“That's a load of crap. You died, but know you're alive? I don't need my semblance to know that's a lie.” Clover closed his eyes prepared himself for his aura to break, but heard a click and felt nothing. Another click, and another, and a few more in rapid succession. Nothing. He opened his eyes to find Robyn frustrated with her weapon.

“Why aren't you working?!” she demanded. With a strong hit to its side, the arrow flew, narrowly missing Clover. He could feel it whizzing past his cheek and hear its sharp sound as it passed his ear. Lucky me.

“Robyn please! Listen to me.” he extended his hand out to her. She took it, her grip like a vice.

“What happened here?”

“It was just as I said earlier. Me, Qrow, and Tyrian were all fighting each other. Qrow broke by aura, Tyrian stabbed me with Harbinger, and I died. And for some reason, I’m alive now. I don't know where Qrow is, and Tyrian has escaped.” Their arms glowed in approval.

“How? How did you come back from the dead?”

“I don't know. I-” My hand… it has a ring? This… is one of Qrow’s rings, and on my ring finger no less.

“When’d you get married?” she asked. He noticed he was now holding his hand to his face, right in front of Robyn.

“I never was. This is one of Qrow’s rings.”

“I'm guessing he’s alive then, and that he has your weapon, and your four leafed clover pin, cause I don't see them around.”

“My weapon?” My weapon? I'm a huntsman. Huntsmen have weapons, but I don't?

“Yes, Kingfisher.” He gave her an inquisitive look. “Your fishing rod!” she shouted.

“It… doesn’t ring any bells.” I had a fishing rod for a weapon? I do like fishing, but that sounds impractical.

“Ugh. Whatever. You probably hit your head. You'll remember soon enough. Now help me get these guys onto here.”

“Affirmative.” As Clover loaded the last person, he tripped at the entrance of the ship, throwing the officer into the air and landing face first onto its cold metal floor. Luckily, Robin was able to catch the unconscious, airborne officer.

“Since when do you trip? With your luck, you never trip.”

“That is odd. Ever since my semblance manifested, I've never tripped, to the best of my knowledge.”

“We can look into it more later. We've wasted enough time as is. We have to go save Mantle.”

“Bu-” An explosive arrow was launched to meet him square in his face. She didn’t even turn around to aim. Despite this, his aura didn’t break. He flew back in pain, but was able to cushion the blow by landing on one of the seated officers. Ow.. I would hate to be this unlucky guy when he wakes up.

“Say ‘Ironwood has ordered us to Atlas’ or whatever, I’LL KICK YOU OFF THIS SHIP AND LEAVE YOU STRANDED! And if you're stuck out there alone, THEN GOOD LUCK!”

Good luck… good luck. He was taken aback a bit. He remembers that those were his last words to qrow. He also remembers how Qrow cried for him. And that scream…

“Why are you crying? I know you're not that soft.” She had no sympathy for him. He didn't blame her. He looked out the window to see Mantle in Chaos. And Atlas safe in the sky. He wiped his tears and got up.

“I'm with you. All of you.” He extended his hand to her.

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

“Qrow and his kids, they're right. And I want to do this for Qrow. He wanted me to do this. To think for myself, and do what is right. When I died, I could also remember him crying for me. No one’s ever cried for me. I can almost feel his pain. I don't want to make him feel anything like that when I find him again. I want him to be proud of me.” Their arms glow approvingly.

“Maybe you have gone soft, but I think its for the better.”

“Thanks.” He looked at the ring on his hand. What did happen to you? To us?

“But don't be dumb this time around. If you can choose between fighting the homicidal murderer or your boyfriend, choose the homicidal murderer please.”

“B-boyfriend?” He feels the blush across his face, though is lucky Robyn is too busy getting the ship off the ground to notice. For all the flirting he does, he can't say he’s had one. Boyfriend does sound nice. Especially when it’s Qrow. Hmph. Wouldn't it be funny if this ring meant that were married. He could not help but admire the band. Qrow’s favorite one , if he was remembering correctly. Where are you?Wherever you are, know that I love you. Good luck.

“Enough daydreaming lover-boy.” she said with a smile on her face. She was happy to see her old friend on the side she was on. The side of the people. “We have a country to save.”

Clover looked out the window at the sky. In his reflection, he noticed that one of his eyes was red. Qrow’s red. Quietly, he said “Good luck to us.”

#Won't You Come To Me - Island Country of Adornments #The Shaowlord's Wife - And Then The Moon Flew Away #fair game #qrow branwen #clover ebi #wow I hope thinking abt drakenier/rwby doesnt awaken anything in me #3k words #I cant believe I tricked all those people into reading something inspired by drakengard #rereading it though...#kinda cringe #but i was sure as hell having fun #fun facts!#this was just supposed to be its own fic #and nothing more #also i named the first tune as on my phone #bc the first part matched the tune and the second part because it the music box was a part of a japanses jewlery box that I unfortunately n #i named the second tune #the first pat because on the music box's lid is a thread picture of a woman and the tune reminded me of the shadowlord's theme from nier #the second part of the name is because i thought it matched the tune #also i still have this music box #i love music boxes #Exhausted Wings / Good Luck #rwby

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7r0773r · 3 years

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A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance by Hanif Abdurraqib

There were no Black people who clowned me or any of my pals for listening to so-called "alternative" music, because the people who introduced us to that music were Black people. Of course, there were the hip-hop stalwarts, just like there were the overly devoted punk kids or metalheads who didn't really have much interest in crossing genres up. But these were not a malicious bunch—one simply respected the territory as needed. Keep a wide range of cassettes in a bag, so that if the fate of school bus seating shook you out next to the devoted rap heads, you'd have something to pass around and collectively nod to. And if you found yourself with a committed Black goth, you could pull the dubbed tape of Cure songs out of your back pocket. I first learned to code-switch through the musical movements of my people, and done among my people in this way, it didn't feel like a shameful burden. It felt like a generosity—a celebration of the many modes we could all fit into.

I think of this particular part of my upbringing when I hear other Black people reference what they grew up listenIng to or watching in an attempt to distance themselves from other Black people, or to make their experience exceptional or unique. A better and more interesting conversation to have, I think, is the one about how we are all outside the borders of someone else's idea of what Blackness is. To someone else Black, I am either too much of something or not enough of something else. The impulse when confronted with these facts, it seems, is to either attempt to assert whatever ness you claim and know well, or punish or deride those who might dare question your identity.

But if Blackness and the varied performance of it are to be embraced, then what also has to be embraced is the flawed fluidity of it. How the performance is sometimes regional, sometimes ancestral, often partially forged out of a need to survive some place, or some history, or some other people who didn't wish you or your kinfolk well. And yes, sometimes forged out of an ambition to appeal to the limited imagination of whiteness. The problem is that there is no way to prove oneself Black enough for every type of Black identity in the States, let alone the world. There is not always a way to prove (and possibly no way to trace) the how and why of your personal performance, until it becomes calculated. And in trying, high-profile figures often spiral further into being scrutinized by their doubters. I am thinking often on how crucial it is to love Black people even when feeling indicted by them. Even when that indictment is not out of love (which of course it sometimes is), but out of them clocking you for a standard you are not capable of rising to. I don't have any solution for this, but it has often seemed to me that even nodding and keeping it moving is an act of love when faced with the alternative of publicly debating the small or large nuances of specific modes of Blackness. And to not, in turn, make yourself a victim of Black people for the sympathy of a white audience. (On the Certain and Uncertain Movement of Limbs, pp. 103-04)

***

A country is something that happens to you. History is a series of thefts, or migrations, or escapes, and along the way, new bodies are added to a lineage. Someone finds a place where they think themselves meant to be, and they stop moving. Had the first job my father interviewed for come through at the start of the '80s, I would have been born in Providence, Rhode Island, instead of Columbus, Ohio, where work at the time was more plentiful. A city adorned with the name of a violent colonizer, his statue looming over the center of the downtown, his history a happening unto itself. I never asked to be in this country, or this city, of course. But what we end up with in the earliest moments of our lives can be beyond asking. I think now about the story of my two pals sitting down with their three-year-old only child and telling her that she was soon going to be the older sister to a new, younger child—the introduction of whom would require a halving of attention. The child took all of this information in, sat quietly for a moment, and then plainly replied, "No, thank you." (The Josephine Baker Monument Can Never Be Large Enough, p. 142)

***

Merry Clayton never gave birth to the baby she showed up to the studio pregnant with. Shortly after getting home from the session, she miscarried. There are those who say that the physical strain Clayton exerted in the studio contributed to the miscarriage, though she herself has never blamed the song or the Stones or the studio, which may be her way of keeping her grief her business and not aligning it with another piece of rock 'n' roll mythology. I don't know anything about what it is to carry or give life, but I know that when Merry Clayton's voice cracks in "Gimme Shelter," a part of me wants to jump as if it is the shot that begins the war itself. A part of me hears Mick shout and wants to know what he saw in that moment. A pregnant Black woman balancing on a stool, summoning all she had in order to leave behind something memorable. The backup singers, man. They get to be memorable for a few minutes at a time and forgotten in all of the minutes in between. I want to know if Mick saw every wretched tooth in the mouth of the world's most wretched beasts trembling and falling to the ground. There is some awful reckoning to be had in a song like that. Some awful things to be lived with. (I Would Like to Give Merry Clayton Her Roses, pp. 200-01)

***

I would like to give Merry Clayton her roses. I would like roses to burst forth from the walls of every room Merry Clayton is in. I would like to give roses to every singer who had a name tied up in liner notes and not on the tongues of people who sang along to their pristine vocals. I would like to bring roses to the doorstep of the house Merry Clayton walked out of at midnight in 1969 and I would like to lay roses on the stool where she sat, her pregnant belly hanging over the edge while she sang murder, murder, murder. I would like roses to come out of the ground somewhere any time a person's voice cracks under the weight of what it has been asked to carry, I would like to do this while the living are still the living, and I don't want to hear from any motherfucker who isn't with the program. I would like roses for Merry Clayton to fall from the sky whenever a gunshot echoes above and I would like roses for Merry Clayton in the hands of whoever could throw the first punch but doesn't. I want the small red fists to come from the earth and slowly open wherever Meredith Hunter's body is, or wherever his body had been. I want Merry Clayton to be as big as the Rolling Stones. I want teenagers to wear her face on T-shirts, and I mean her good face with her good afro and her fur coat and her father's eyes. I want record stores to stock the solo records of Merry Clayton in the front case and I want them to play all of the songs she sang alone, with no one else. I want enough roses to build headstones for everyone I love. I want the moment when the drums kick in on any version of "Gimme Shelter." I want that feeling in my chest to always remind me what I'd miss if it were taken from me. I want shelter, and I don't even know what that means anymore. I want nowhere, nothing sacred. (I Would Like to Give Merry Clayton Her Roses, pp. 203-04)

***

Late in 2016, after the election results had come back and the demographic voting breakdowns began to circulate, the most jarring of all the stats was that white women voted for Donald Trump over Hillary Clinton at a 52 percent to 43 percent clip. Resting underneath that, however, was that Black women overwhelmingly voted Clinton, at 93 percent. A lot of the conversation centered on the intersection of gender and power, and how white women will vote in the interest of the latter if it means ignoring all else. But what also began was a groundswell of appreciation for Black women that read as disturbing to me, largely because it was rooted primarily in their ability to fix the country, or labor on behalf of a mess many of them didn't ask for. The discomfort was most visceral because a majority of people engaging in this narrative in its early stages were white, and potentially "well-meaning," but not considering what the building of those ideas might be doing. Or not considering the motives behind these actions. To shout "Black women are going to save us all!" might feel good to type out to send in a tweet, but it reads as less good when one stops to consider that Black people—specifically Black women in this case—are not here in this country as vessels to drag it closer to some moral competence. The American obsession with immorality and a willingness to push its hardest labor off on its most marginalized is integral to the Black American experience, and so it occurred to me that maybe Black women were simply attempting to save themselves. That many Black people in the country have to go to jobs they don't love, or deal with waves of microaggressions at work or at the coffee shop or at the gym, and still know that voting won't save or stop any of this but did it anyway because the bet was already bad but the dealer had the cards in his hand to make it worse, and so many of us knew it. (Beyoncé Performs at the Super Bowl and I Think About All of the Jobs I've Hated, pp. 215-16)

***

Friends, I come to you very plainly afraid that I am losing faith in the idea that grief can become anything but grief. The way old neighborhoods are torn to the ground and new ones sprout from that same ground, it feels, most days, like my grief is simply being rebuilt and restructured along my own interior landscape. There is not enough distance between tragedies for my sadness to mature into anything else but another new monument obscuring the last new monument. When the interviewers asked Buster Douglas what his plan was in 1990, days before the fight, he responded I'll just hit him, I guess. And trust, I have dragged myself back to the walls of my fears and thrown my fists into them, hoping a crack might open for the sunlight to gallop through. But it turns out I'm not the fighter I once was, and I was never much of a fighter in the first place. It turns out all of my fears have become immovable.

I am afraid not of death itself, but of the unknown that comes after. I am afraid not of leaving, but of being forgotten. I am in love today but am afraid that I might not be tomorrow. And that is to say nothing of the bullets, the bombs, the waters rising, and the potential for an apocalypse. People ask me to offer them hope, but I'd rather offer them honesty. Black people get asked to perform hope when white people are afraid, but it doesn't always serve reality. Hope is the small hole cut into the honest machinery. The milk crate is still a milk crate, but with the right opening, a basketball can make its way through. If I am going to be afraid, I might as well do it honest. Arm in arm with everyone I love, adorned in blood and bruises, singing jokes on our way to a grave. (Fear: A Crown, pp. 248-49)

***

August 2016

Young Thug is wearing a dress on the cover of his mixtape Jeffery and the Internet wants to argue about what it all means for the future of masculinity and I need a haircut tomorrow but I'm not going to the shop to hear them talk about this shit and I go because it's the only shop in town but I hate their politics but I gotta stay fly because I don't feel like myself without a fresh cut. Let me try this again. I don't feel like myself without something that makes me desirable to people I don't know, and to know this is to know that the future of masculinity is probably not in the shape people want it to be. But Young Thug is wearing an expensive dress on the cover of his mixtape, and on the Internet, there are people insisting that this will be the thing that pushes the conversation forward. Someone shares a video of Young Thug flashing guns and this is the juxtaposition: You can still be hard and wear a dress is the sentiment. I scroll through comments and see variations on this theme, but I don't see anyone mention the idea that perhaps one problem is the public's concept that the masculine antithesis to wearing a dress is showing that you are willing to enact violence. Within an hour of the cover art's release, outlets write about it, labeling the art as controversial. No one suggests that the very idea of gender norms themselves are controversial, or that any binary aggressively enforcing itself through rigid definitions is controversial. Young Thug wore a dress on the cover for a mixtape that had some good songs about that same shit Thug had been rapping about forever and no one I know really listened to it all that much because the talk about the dress eclipsed all else. About a month later, a man walked out of the train station near my apartment wearing a crop top, a full face of makeup, and tight jeans that flared wide at the bottom. The papers say he was chased by another group of men until they caught him on a corner two blocks from where I lived. He was beaten bloody by one man while the others stood over him, mocking the way he curled up in a ball while being kicked. This story made the last five minutes of the local news. I wonder what clothing masculinity could cloak itself in that might drive it further away from an obsession with dominance through violence. I don't get my hair cut for three weeks. (On the Performance of Softness, pp. 252-53)

#hanif abdurraqib #book quotes

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