“New oaks poke out below us in the street, where water runs around the lopped-off feet of some historic general whose head the children painted red.”

We’re done with ruling and with those who rule, with what they built and all their useless tools.

“We must survive the night - and all the other nights. We must survive the flood. We must not just survive but thrive in mud.”

“Caught in the act of giving birth to a new oil-paint earth of no set design, you will lie there dying.”

For empires crumble as I’ve been told, and in the rib-caged wreckage of gray leviathans I may glimpse some hint of the blueprint of this shared corruption. I may come to comprehend why I could never mend my own desolation. I may erase my station. - From Christopher Scott Thompson

The fisher king was never healed, they never meant for us to heal him. They only meant to conceal what we’d been fed, so they concealed him.