Let’s just say that it’s a busy Saturday barbeque morning at the butcher’s counter. The burly meat-man has just noticed the old lady in Birkenstocks with the pale, far-seeing eyes. She has been waiting for quite some time even though she’s been at the meat counter since the store opened. The estrogen off-gassing, smooth-haired, yoga-panted females have finally rumped their carts filled with children to the dairy case. At last, he turns his attention to her, “May I help you ma’am?”
Let’s say that the Crone smiles gently – or doesn’t even smile; she just folds the knowledge of his masculine oblivion like a sharp obsidian knife in her fist. She’s the one who knows how to hunt sightlessly, in dreams across the tundra, her long white hair stretched like wires, each strand connected to a power animal. Let’s suppose that the survival of the fittest doesn’t ride in the loins of the sperm-makers, but rather, in the withered cunts of the dream riders.