In my chest, I hold a sliver of hope, an intention lacking vessel to pour into, one that identifies with Proudhon, Bakunin, Kropotkin, Makhno, Zapata, Iain. M. Banks. Yet the great questions elude answers, I lack in character to live as they had. A vibe, aesthetic, not really met in daily deed.
I enjoy the meager fruit of welfare state. Enough to live, scarcely to thrive. My hope and dream is to live thriving and help and enable others to the same. I cannot help everyone, so I help those who I know, my friends, friends of friends, odd acquaintances, objects of my adoration. Best I can do.