The clear-eyed crystalline fracture of blackness. The burden and the privilege of it all.

Tapped into the inner mad scientist, Dr. Frankenstein, truth and storyteller. A whisper in your ear, a shout from the hills and the rooftop . . . cause an echo that never fades but returns as fierce as ever.

The rock. Does it form the foundation as it shatters the window?

The paper. Common and communal. Light as a feather, heavy as lead, history on its surface.

The scissors. Cold and sharp, a slice a cut. The microphone forged from a weapon and tool.

Urgent beats on a drum to urgent digital beats remixed and sampled to create anew.

The hand that caresses raised into a fist.

Who is holding the mirror and who is reflected back? There is no fire next time . . . the fire is now.