Hi – A Request

Hi there! You are getting this message because you elected to follow my blog somewhere along the journey.

I am revamping my online presence, and in the process, brettonkeating.com will transition to highlight my yoga, barre, and reiki offerings. I am consolidating most of my writing onto my other page, whitecottonrose.com. I send out a monthly newsletter, full of words + art—it is a fresh breath of life, what I find inspiring in the moment, and a way to stay connected with like-minded individuals. If you are interested in subscribing to this and staying up to date on my words, please click here.

Thank you for your support of my work, and please do stay in touch!

With love,


only art will understand

I feel myself going crazy again today, in the way that only art will understand.

If I can just catch a word, a shape, a color long enough to make something of it. Maybe then it will begin to make some semblance of sense.

Or likely it never will, which I may as well accept sooner than later. Not for my own sanity, per se, because I most certainly had none to begin with. Nor for peace of mind, exactly, but rather for a hope. A hope of what, I’m not so sure, but perhaps solely for the hope of living.

Some brains weren’t meant for logic; some bodies weren’t designed for reason. And I will never deduct the yes’s and no’s of my heart. Instead I will continue to live the only way I know how. By fever-drawn dreams and scratches in sand leading to a place I can only hope feels like home.

It feels like a feeling I will never quite capture. A sound on the verge of being heard. I caught a hand today and was surprised at how close she was there. I thought her a vision I would never quite touch.

I now lie sideways, in a carriage, and type.

The words flew by yesterday, and then again today, and I didn’t catch them fast enough.

Isn’t that how it always seems to go?

What they don’t tell you, beforehand, or even during the adventure, is how mad you must be to partake. They don’t tell you the feelings you’ll experience on the way, skipping along the yellow brick road to nowhere. I’ve floated the abyss for too long. I don’t know how to return.

I paused the screen right before the movie turned real.

I covered my ears just prior to hearing the scream.

I shaved away pieces only to uncover more underneath. More what? I’ll never know.

I didn’t hit save, and all was lost.

The masterpiece slipped through detached fingertips. I wasn’t yet ready. I was born ready.

There are others like me, of that I am convinced. Yet no two of us are the same.

We only feel at home in the ocean. Press your head back far enough, and you can float.

We need each other, desperately, yet we need no one at all.

We crave stillness only to discover, when it comes, that our heart screams a perfectly silent sound.

We tiptoe on the edge, shadowy sunset of a dance, wondering why no one else has joined us on the cliffside. Don’t they know the beauty down below? Or can it only be seen by our (very blind) eyes?

I sleepwalked my way through a world built of numbers.

This morning bright red blood dripped from skin worn away, first by relentless itching, and then infection that spread, stealthily, within.

The ceiling was white; it shook me awake.

Energy buzzed in the walls directly before disaster struck.

Nobody thought to give rest to the water. It ran for hours through a drained-dry pump before the lightest of touches brought it back again.

A chainsaw serves as unforeseen backdrop. Construction’s sounds and smells, a place for one weary head to rest.

Three misfits curled together, late of course, but for what, none of us knows.

The ball continues to roll and I just may have reached a giant circle with my arms.

Side stretches are the kind that feel best, right now.

I’m not sure what I’m doing here, and I don’t know what I’m not doing here, either. But I do know one thing. I finally feel ready, today, to get back to work.

It feels like kneeling a stone’s throw from the answer, yet knowing deep down that there is no answer. There’s only life.

My fingers were made to move and my wild heart’s song beats against unprotected ribcage. Spirit plagued by an eternal escapist, craving to get out. And then just as suddenly, self-imposed walls come crumbling down.

to the magically unrooted: reasons we belong

to the magically unrooted: reasons we belong

I know it doesn’t feel like you’re quite a fit. Here, or anywhere.

I know the pain of this feeling. How deeply it scratches beneath the skin.

I know how you drift through worlds neither real nor unreal, with starry eyes and a soft smile.

I know how throughout the roamings and the wanderings, you feel initially enchanted and then eventually saddened by yet another not-here, not-me, not-now. There always comes a time to move on.

Oh, how deeply I know the feeling of loneliness in the midst a crowded room.

The ache of not fitting and the heart-rending agony of never feeling at home.

But I also know this, firmly: you belong. You carry a home from another planet perhaps, deep within your chest. This home never leaves you behind, no matter how many places you’ve left. The further you run, the stronger its whispered song grows.

Your heartbeats will eventually find (or, if it hasn’t yet come into existence, create) an earthly place that makes so much sense, you know it was written just for you. It’s only a matter of time.

And until then, you will continue to find home in the ethereal. The shimmer of water over rocks. The way the sunlight falls into her eyes, just right. A quick, sideways glance over his new yet familiar shoulder, to make certain you’re still there. At least for this moment. And you are. You’re more grounded than you think.

The mark of true groundedness is stability without roots. Carrying the shell of open existence over mountains and oceans. Flying freely wherever the breeze goes.

I believe some of us become stuck.

We stop listening to the wind and the water, to the sounds of the earth. We believe we need certain things or ideas or knowledge built up like towers around us for comfort and protection. Not you. You are free of all of that. Because years ago, you discovered your castle was made of glass. And with the swiftest of kicks, everything you once thought you knew came shattering down.

Now you dance, freely, with the full realization that you know nothing. There is nothing, really, to know. There is only remembrance.

This ability to tiptoe along worlds you cannot describe, only feel — this is beautiful, and we need this. Each and every one of us does.

The ability to feel, not only for ourselves, but also for those surrounding us — what a magical gift you offer.

It may not seem as such, many and most days. It may feel like a burden you carry upon shoulders that never seem to drop. But one day, those very same shoulders will find the person or place in which they can finally let go. Carried to the home that fits every piece of its perfectly (mis)matched puzzle, your heart will fly open again.

And until that happens, know this: you belong.

You belong in the way you channel your raw emotion into art. In the way your art becomes and remains an expression of life itself. You belong in the way you take notice of little moments and big ones, sometimes forgetting everything in between, but that’s okay because you will remember what needs to be remembered, and not a moment too soon.

You drink too much coffee and sleep too little, some seasons. All to serve your work. The expression of your being.

You fall in love easily and often, with many people, places, and things. Most of all with those that seem to match your energy. But energy changes with the wind, and so you tend to get hurt easily too. Always remember that just as you fall into it, you fall out of love just as easily, and often, perhaps.

And in spite of all this falling, in and out, up and down, above and even (maybe) beyond, you continue to hold a small shimmer of each person, place, or thing you once loved or still do currently, in your heart.

Moving through the world in this way, intricate dance of a jolted dimension, you frequently feel separate, as though you aren’t a part of it all. You were dropped here by accident. You belong with no one person, in no one place.

I cannot tell you how false this idea is.

Society and some of its variant members have striven to make you feel this way. Disconnection creates a sense of power, the false blanket of security. When we’re disconnected, both from each other and from a source of truth, we don’t stand fully in our own right to exist, just as we are.

And you, darling, absolutely belong.

You belong in the crevices of the mountains you climb. You belong floating on the water’s surface at the brinks of sunset. You belong lying in grass so fresh, it leaves its mark in thirsty skin for days or weeks or months or years.

Because if there’s one thing that’s certain, it’s that we creatures of the Earth, we’re not meant to be alone. We belong together. And you may feel like an outsider here, yet you are the one at whom children smile, with a knowing glance. You’re part of their world. Dogs become calmer in your presence. The butterfly ceases its fluttering just long enough to land, for a pause, on your tiptoeing finger.

I watch you sit, on the edge of your seat, in joyful anticipation of all we have left to hope for. About to dance into the next fleeting moment. Who knows what it will bring? No doubt, it will contain rain droplets of art, and beauty, and pain, and life.

People like you, the magically unrooted, able to fly from place to place, person to person, moment to moment, are necessary here. To remind us all, no matter how far we go, and despite everything we encounter in between — the suffering and joy, heartache and happiness — each of us is already home.


This piece was published on Rebelle Society

creativity is life itself

creativity is life itself

I was once told I have an unhealthy attachment to creativity.

This comment made me angry, which then made me proud because I spent centuries numbing myself from anger. Sometimes it just feels good to feel something again. After the initial, three-second anger burst wore off, I stopped to think, and then I laughed.

In reality, creativity is the essence of who we are.

The opposite of creation is not destruction; it’s death.

Destruction, or the breaking down, the demolition, the annihilation of what must be destroyed, is an essential step inherent in the process of creativity brought to life.

I think the person who made this remark may have been referring to art.

Maybe I do have an attachment to my own artistic process. But maybe that’s because my art is less about what I make and more about uncovering who I am. And this road of self-discovery is one that I absolutely, without a doubt, cannot stop treading. My very life depends on it.

We all wear masks that we’re taught to don from before we can walk. Be the happy, smiling, good girl. Go ahead and say yes. Eat everything society serves you with a big ol’ thank-you-more-please without stopping to question who or how you’re being taught to live, and who or how you would be without any such teaching.

When we break down the masks and destroy the shells, what is left underneath?

I’m finding the deeper I go, the more of an artist is there, clawing and screaming her way out.

And there are so many available mediums, the entire world becomes the artist’s playground. From the human body to food to spreadsheets to paint to anything else you use to shape the world around you. That, dear friends, is creativity.

Maybe I won’t use paint and charcoal and movement and words as my mediums forever. Regardless, I will always have the drive to create, not because it’s an external action that I’m addicted to performing, but because creativity is who I am. We are all artists deep down, whether we choose to recognize it or not.

We all have the internal drive to build and shape and mold, ultimately with the greater intention of leaving our mark here.

And I believe anyone who denies their own inner creative sense has simply stopped listening.

We grow up, as children, scribbling and sketching away. Everything makes sense and all is sacred. We inherently understand the connectedness of it all, without having need for explanation or reason.

Somewhere along the way, we can often lose touch with this childlike sense.

I tend to attract people who want to reconnect to their creative selves. These people, many of whom appear to be in some semblance of a transition phase, seem drawn to me. They want to tell me of their ideas. They feel the need to express their artistic sides to me.

I, too, am an ideas person. I have about a million and a half a day. Some stick; many fly away.

I was in the midst of a difficult life transition, several years ago. Stuck in a rut, and lost along the way, my external situation had become me, and I felt it killing me slowly. My throat was closing. I lived in a landmine of pain.

At the time, I was living in so many ways according to how I had been taught to act rather than how I felt called from within. Throughout the process, I experienced hopeless moments, full of despair. I felt as though I was in over my head in life, and had no idea how to carve my way back to myself.

During this period, I met with a healer whose eyes lit up, when I told her how I had recently found myself immersed in art. I told her how my favorite pastime, of the moment, involved stopping in estate sales and on the sides of roads to select old wooden furniture or even a scrap here or there, before bringing my findings home to repaint and fix up. I painted each and every one of these pieces white. As she heard this, her eyes grew wide and she paused before proclaiming of the symbolism behind me transforming this old, worn-down, forgotten furniture. White.

Art, time and again, brings me back to myself. Art allows me the space to transform back into who I was before the world told me how to be.

Whether it’s painting a dresser in messy strokes of upcycled white or dancing or cooking without recipes or even just coloring in the lines of somebody else’s shape, art gives me space to be, without thought or judgment or reason.

Allowed to wander around the forest of my mind for too long, I would go mad.

When I’m creating, through words or colors or bodily shapes, my thoughts get out of the way of life happening. I am present. And I feel like my existence begins to make the slightest bit of sense.

No matter our belief system, creativity affords us a connection to the divine, if we are open to it.

Our creative urges and inklings needn’t make reasonable sense, for they bring us back to the childlike state, where all things were possible and reason wasn’t necessary for day to day existence. It just was.

All life is, by definition, creative.

Creativity is not an unhealthy attachment, a useless pastime, or something you need to suppress. Creativity is bringing form to life itself.

So despite what others tell you, about the impracticality of your creative dreams, I want to encourage you something different. For in connection to your creative self, you bring light and change and breath to the world. Even when the light you shine is on darkness itself. And in so doing, you give us all meaning.

We were not placed here by chance, but rather to stir positive change through what we create.

And that creation can take an infinity of forms.

For me, today, that form is an empty frame. Which, naturally, I’m painting white. The story behind it, as yet unwritten.

“you’re in the right place.”

“you’re in the right place.”

The last thing I wanted to do was to start travel blogging.

I find blogs not exactly my style. I can write them, mostly if other people ask me to, but when it comes to my own website and creative projects, blogging can sometimes feel like pulling teeth. Maybe it’s because I’m driven by emotion. Give me blood-dripping feeling and my fingers fly. Listacles, how-to’s, and having a straightforwardly clear “message” for “the reader” to “leave with” stab like a knife to my soul. I, personally, don’t understand what I’m writing most of the time. And I believe in the hands-off approach with people in general; let them interpret how they will. Writing, after all, is a communication stream of infinite facets. At any point in time, we’re bound to understand differently, based on where we are in that exact moment.

So a little over a week ago, I landed in India where the days seem to spawn weeks. Something I never used to think about before, like getting safe drinking water, becomes a day-long affair here (in my alternate universe, where each day consists of seven), and I oscillate between taking classes, venturing out into the sun to run an errand here or there, and holing up in my apartment, either cooking or spending far too much time on the Internet researching things like whether or not I can fly direct from India to Hawaii, and far not enough time writing.

My roommates — another reason not to leave my apartment!

I arrived to the airport in Delhi and immediately regretted my decision to come here. As I had been for weeks prior. Hardly anyone I spoke to would listen to my qualms. Even my therapist brushed aside my hesitations, saying (as did most) that I was in for the “trip of a lifetime” and she “was slightly jealous”. It’s interesting how we all seem to want to be where we are not.

So I spent the night in the Delhi airport, before leaving first thing in the morning for Bangalore. I had no printed ticket for my third and final flight; in America, this is something they give you at the ticket counter when you check in. Not so in India. To get to the ticket counter, I had to pass through several lines, each of which required a printed ticket. I stumbled through the lines before I was blocked several times. I was beginning to have flight anxiety. Asking anyone who resembled someone-who-might-know-something where I could get a printed ticket, I was directed in multiple angles, all with a vague wave of hand and a head nod, a language I have yet to speak. I walked outside and was hit with a smog so intense my lungs closed, and then I fell into my default, of course, which is to cry.

I finally made it up several rounds of stairs, to a desk behind a glass wall, where I hoped that my ticket could be printed. On complete autopilot, as I had repeated the same question many times, I told the man sitting behind the desk that I needed a copy of my ticket, and here was my flight information. I handed him the tickets to my first two flights as well as my phone, on which I’d managed to find some kind of outline of an airline travel itinerary, while asking him, “Am I in the right place?”

The man looked at me, no doubt noticing my clear disarray. He began checking things on his computer, spending what felt like hours glancing between my phone and his screen, before finally giving me a meaningful look and saying, “You are in the right place.”

He printed something out and pointed to another line I would need to stand in to get my actual ticket.

As he handed me my old tickets he said, “Nice quote.” At first I didn’t know what he meant, thinking I’d heard “Nice coat,” so I said “Oh, thank you.” I think he could tell I was confused because he clarified, “Nice quote,” gesturing toward my ticket this time.

Sitting on my first flight to Canada, I had scribbled a lyric from a song I’d been listening to that spoke to me, thinking the ticket stub to be garbage only to realize later, with a tinge of embarrassment, that I would have to hand it to no less than six or seven other people in various travel lines, to get onto flights and with inquiries and such. No one else had commented on it.

The quote reads: “Cause with you always feels like home.”


Lately, finding a home has been a priority. I feel caught between places. I’ve tried living in different areas and nowhere feels like quite a fit, and I know the next place I go needs to feel like more of a fit than the last because of how hard this last year was for me and how deep of a depression I fell into. I need to find a home; I need roots. I’m filled with meaning but I’m rootless and so it’s been difficult for me to direct that meaning in a sustainable way that doesn’t deplete me of energy. The next place I land needs to be for myself and not for anyone else and it needs to be a place in which I can thrive. These are all big pressure-points building and when it comes down to it, painful feelings to experience.

I hope no one else has to feel the way that I feel, lately.

Coming to India is another in-between stop along the way to finding a home, so really it’s just another leap of faith.

My first week here has been filled with doubts, even wondering if I could leave early, but then realizing, yet again, that I don’t know where I would go if I did. So I’m committing to myself to stay for the three months I signed up for and taking things one day at a time which is really all any of us can do in any given moment.

And with this faith-leap, I have to remind myself, constantly, “You are in the right place.”

It always looks prettier from the outside-in and it always seems more magical in retrospect.

And just because I’m looking for a home, I’m well aware that I most likely won’t find it. At least not the kind of home or in the ways in which I’m looking for it. It’s always the things we don’t seek that fall into our laps unexpectedly and magically and oh-so-perfectly.

Maybe I’m not meant to find a long-term home, just yet. Maybe I need to wander a bit longer.

Maybe I didn’t come to India for any of the reasons I anticipated. I had been starting to heal in San Francisco, and my last week there I had a non-toxic place to stay, and I began to love the city once again. I had a healing support system there, and I had taken great measures to remove what wasn’t working for me.

I came to India with zero expectations but some inklings of what I might-need-to-watch-out-for and what maybe-might-happen-here and I can tell already that the above is probably not going to actually happen, at least not in the ways that I thought they might. Maybe I came for other reasons rather, which will most likely not be revealed to me until years later, if ever.

While here I’ve already found some healing avenues similar yet different from those I had in SF, so I’m exploring these as we speak. I want to think that I can cure myself of depression once and for all, but maybe instead this latest bout of depression is a necessary step along my twisted path. Fighting against my own mind takes up way too much of my energy so I may as well make friends with it. Even when my mind tells me scary things like that I have no place here and I don’t belong. Friends can be scary sometimes. Especially those closest to us. And there is no closer friend than myself.

I don’t have answers, only questions, many of which I’m tired of asking, so I think right now I’ll continue to repeat the mantra “You’re in the right place,” even (especially) when it feels like I’m not.

premature nostalgia, and living in the present.

premature nostalgia, and living in the present.

In life there come times and places for change and transformation to occur, often cyclically. My life so far has been a whirlwind of such cycles of change, and as I find myself facing an upcoming journey, I have been preparing for yet another move, per usual to an eventual destination unknown. I believe plans to be overrated. Personally I find the more I try to force a happening as a piece of an idea my brain has decided should happen, the more it doesn’t feel like a fit. I much prefer to set clear intentions for how I want to live my life, and then allow the universe to present the opportunities to me in the right moments.

Last week as I cleared a bookshelf in the hopes of removing it and all the books I had hoped I would read, I came across old journals, which I began flipping through out of curiosity for what I might find.

I landed on pages from a few years ago, when I spent my days at my possible height of whimsical creativity, writing fairy tales every day and scribbling messy maps of each story beforehand outside the lines of my notebook, in my style, which is mostly indecipherable to nearly everyone else. My mind immediately traveled back to that point in time—how alive and free I felt, how bright-eyed and full of hope.

There’s this funny thing about nostalgia. It never exists in the present. Except for the present form of premature nostalgia I am currently experiencing, on the brinks of leaving this city I have grown to love and dislike in the same exact breath. My mind has already transported itself to a future state, one in which my present is past. I watch through the futuristic lenses I have taken to wearing, absorbing bits and pieces of a landscape I know I will feel nostalgic for down the road. The anticipation of nostalgia is enough to drive anyone wistfully crazy.

I love walking through my neighborhood in the sunny evenings, meeting new puppies with crystal blue eyes and watching children riding on the backs of tandem bicycles with orange tutus flying in the wind. I love climbing the hill that I can see from my window, watching as it turns different shades depending on the time of year. Green to brown to red to gold to brownish-green again.

I love the cafés, farmers markets, healing avenues, friends, teachers, and community I have found here. I feel as though I’m already watching my life in this place through a microscope of reminiscent remorse—remember when? And that one time, how we (fill in the blank)? Living in the space where beauty and growth and so-much-else happened?

The funny thing about nostalgia is she firmly resolves not to give the slightest bit of notice to anything less than the level of goodness she wants to believe. Her rose-colored lenses block out the heartbreak I was unknowingly experiencing, as well as a toxic learning experience I skipped right into, wearing a berry jacket with the hood up, emanating the innocence of Little Red Riding Hood in more ways than one during the peak of my fairy tale days years ago. Premature nostalgia is quick to forget about how I cried at least daily, for a year here. How within this city I found myself wishing, desperately, I could disappear.

I’m discovering nostalgia doesn’t only exist as past remembrance. It also happens in the present, particularly on the brinks of future change. It reminds us of why we may not truly want to change, because we kind of like our lives as-is for xyz reasons.  Anticipated nostalgia keeps us resistant to both moving forward and truly embracing the moment we are in.

These prematurely nostalgic thoughts do not serve me. It’s like when we’re about to leave a job that we’ve complained about for years, but suddenly the boss doesn’t seem so bad and the perks appear to outweigh the cons.

Any kind of change is scary, particularly one that clears out all things from our lives—both what we love and what we don’t love so much. But we can take the aspects we love, such as the feeling of walking up the hill at sunset, or the discovery of lying in a luscious patch of green grass in the late-summer sun. We can hold these bits of time in a pocket in our hearts, to return to whenever our memories recall the feeling of it. And I believe we can do so without nostalgic remorse, but from a place of loving understanding that the exact state of being we recall, while beautiful, can be beautifully remembered in the present, rather than with longing to return to a time passed.

Because the point of life is to stay present to it. And through the melancholy of my nostalgia, both from a time long-gone and the anticipation of it, I lose the ability to be present, as well as to embrace my life in its current form.

Now that I recognize the premature nostalgia standing on my reluctant shoulders, I can turn my head and give her a light smile and a nod. She understands the meaning, and already knows it’s time to leave. She’s clouding my ability to fully enjoy my last few weeks here. The seeds she scatters do not allow me to step, fully, into this moment and the place of change happening.

And so, moment by moment, I can choose to be presently involved again, living free of nostalgia for the past or even the future-past present.  


please don’t call me when you’re lonely.

The water feels perfect this time of year. There’s hardly anyone at the beach, and you know that’s the way I like it.

Why is it that for some of us, it feels like therapy getting tossed around by waves, yet when we’re tossed around by humans in curiously mountain-shaped cities, it takes us weeks upon years to recover?

Why is it that some of us would rather travel alone than have to explain to others how we feel inside when real-life things happen and we go on living anyway? How we feel in the still, silent aftermath of the storm, when we thought you might, but then you didn’t, call? How the feelings continue to come and go like waves, yet some settle longer than others, a froth of messy bubbles over dirty sand.

Please don’t call me when you’re lonely. Please don’t use me as yet another distraction, a drug to numb the pain. You say you feel better when you’re with me, and I with you, and at the end of the day, we all need rejuvenation, but sometimes that word means different things to different people.

I deserve more. I deserve someone who feels as happy as I do in a solo dance among the waves, free of company barring a crew of seagulls, with one of whom I play an enchanting game of I see you, bird between wave and bag and back again. Food’s all gone, and you can’t have my words. Birds are smarter than they look, you know. They used to say that about me.

So you know that dream, the one you’ve been telling me about for years? Please fly away and go do it already. Because nobody else will ask you to, and the only person waiting is yourself.

And when you do it, I hope it shakes and stirs you like the balloon I rescued from the ocean today, on a journey of questionable length, time, and distance, but still holding air.

When you make it back to shore, I can’t tell you I’ll still be around, but I promise I’ll always listen.

Most of all, I hope the dream unmasks you. Down to the bone. Because I woke up one day and realized that we’re only friends when you’re homesick, and in the moment I didn’t think I’d make it, I was gasping for air while grasping hands with a ghost.

Thank you for unknowingly creating this moment, because in it you shone a light on the one thing I needed most to know — that I can write whatever the f*ck I want to. Even the curse words that make me cringe, in their raw staleness of sheer too-much-feeling.

We’re taught how to be happy on the exterior, but we aren’t taught what to do with our anger. We aren’t taught how to channel it into a wave-ridden dance or the safe space of words. We’re taught to suppress it deep in a lockbox hidden within our chest before we throw the key out to sea. For which I’ve been swimming for centuries, uncertain I’ll ever find it.

Regardless, my alien story has value, as do my hopes and my dreams. So, for you, I hope that you find what you’re looking for. And for me, I dream of something more. Because I deserve someone who does not merely tolerate my rawness, but loves it.

Someone who holds his palm outstretched with the hopes of carrying my dripping heart. Who understands anger without need for words. Who understands how the anger dissipates from the tops of the waves, and that the more time I spend alone with the ocean, the closer I get to perhaps recovering the key to the locked box inside my heart.

I deserve someone who wants to walk alongside my wave-shattered body, together in our mutually respective aloneness.

The space you gave me, all those years ago, when you didn’t call, wasn’t out of love or respect or even friendship; it was for yourself. I do believe love is created from space and deep breaths of air, but I’m discovering the difference between air I want to breathe and that which my lungs can do without.

It may have something to do with mountain-shaped cities, and beaches without humans and with only the underrated intelligence of birds.



This piece was published on Rebelle Society.