social.vivaldi.net

Zeitpunkt              Nutzer    Delta   Tröts        TNR     Titel                     Version  maxTL
So 11.08.2024 00:00:11    52.544     +39    2.277.371    43,3 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
Sa 10.08.2024 00:00:02    52.505     +43    2.273.785    43,3 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
Fr 09.08.2024 00:00:07    52.462     +26    2.270.038    43,3 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
Do 08.08.2024 00:00:13    52.436     +40    2.266.517    43,2 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
Mi 07.08.2024 00:00:08    52.396     +52    2.263.493    43,2 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
Di 06.08.2024 00:00:03    52.344     +41    2.260.152    43,2 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
Mo 05.08.2024 00:00:10    52.303     +40    2.256.956    43,2 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
So 04.08.2024 00:00:02    52.263     +36    2.253.188    43,1 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
Sa 03.08.2024 00:00:13    52.227     +51    2.253.058    43,1 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337
Fr 02.08.2024 00:01:10    52.176       0    2.248.590    43,1 Vivaldi Social            4.2.10   1.337

nisemikol (@nisemikol) · 05/2023 · Tröts: 78 · Folger: 27

So 11.08.2024 17:43

For the next 65 seconds,
we claim this space for the dead.
For the circle: always breaking, never broken.
Let the doors open, if only for a breath.
With this offering of sweat, let the flesh in this room
be reminded of just how thin the line is
between music and silence, refusal and compliance—
Between our skin and the lightning behind it.
We claim this space for the dead,
for every ancestor and those who just left, saying:
Tend to your grief like a garden.
Tend to your grief like a fire.
Either way, it’s a harvest, a reminder
of everything that still grows in the darkness;
let it rise higher. This love is not immortal;
it’s fleeting, so we are not going back to normal.
Tell that to the rich man powerless
to buy an antidote to his cowardice.
The status quo is already monstrous,
so when these fascists call you a monster,
show ‘em what a monster is.
My poisoned hope, my battered heart:
when the night has come and the land is dark,
and the moon’s the only light you see—it isn’t much,
but the dead whisper: it’s enough.