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The mala around your wrist is meant
to remind you to go back to the stone-year.
When you were cold, locked out,
cocooned, no one called.
Tone deaf and friendless, you decided:
less collage, more song.
More song meant you got limber,
abandoned the agreed-upon ocean.
You remember it as difficult,
but that part was easy.
If time can unmoor itself and cast off
so can you—
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The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.
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