And I'm carrying this rage like a blood-filled egg and there's a thin line between the inside and the outside a thin line between thought and action and that line is simply made up of blood and muscle and bone and as each T-cell disappears from my body it's replaced by ten pounds of pressure ten pounds of rage and I focus that rage into nonviolent resistance but that focus is starting to slip my hands are beginning to move independently and the egg is starting to crack and America seems to accept murder as self-defense against those who would murder you and it's been murder on a daily basis for ten count them ten long years and we're expected to pay taxes to support this public and social murder and we're expected to quietly and politely make house in this wind-storm of murder but I say there's certain politicians that better get more complex security alarms and there's religious leaders and health care officials that had better get bigger fucking dogs and higher fucking fences and queer bashers better start doing their work from inside howitzer tanks because the thin line between the inside and the outside is beginning to erode and at the moment I'm a three hundred seventy foot tall eleven hundred thousand pound man inside this six foot frame and all I can feel is the pressure all I can feel is the pressure and the need for release
Seven Miles a Second, David Wojnarowicz, writer, James Romberger, inks, Marguerite van Cook, colors
