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She’s nearing stone, dirt-dried hair.
The bird in her chest a bankrupt
conductor, improvising. A lunar
river seeks to collect her, garnishes
grass banks with murk. Tonquin Mountain
sharpens its trap, there is no escape
from this one song, a collection
of end notes, a crawl space of spirals
performing the passage to sleep.
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Decades of biological research haven’t improved diagnosis or treatment. We should look to society, not to the brain.
Though a means of escaping and undermining racial injustice, the practice comes with own set of costs and sacrifices.
Pioneering Afro-Brazilian geographer Milton Santos sought to redeem the field from its methodological fragmentation and colonial legacies.