The revolutionary woman knows the world she seeks to overthrow is precisely one in which love between equal human beings is well nigh impossible. We are still part of the ironical working-out of this, our own cruel contradiction. One of the most compelling facts which can unite women and make us act is the overwhelming indignity or bitter hurt of being regarded as simply __he other_, __n object_, __ommodity_, __hing_. We act directly from a consciousness of the impossibility of loving or being loved without distortion. But we must still demand now the preconditions of what is impossible at the moment. It is a most disturbing dialectic, our praxis of pain.

If it's to be, it's up to me.to which I add;If not now...then when?

When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

You answer to none but the whim of your own black heart.

Twill be the end of us all when it comes...The moon will devour the sun...The sea will rise in a great wave and drown the world...The Realms will fall...Evil will crawl across the land.

A truly happy woman drives some men and almost every other woman absolutely crazy