"Anyone who thinks about what freedom actually is, even for a moment, will never again be able to content themselves by simply doing something to slightly extend the freedom of the situations they are living in. From that moment on, they will feel guilty and will try to do something to alleviate their sense of suffering. They will fear they have done wrong by not having done anything till now, and from that moment on their lives will change completely." (Alfredo Bonanno: The Anarchist Tension)

It's too late for me, my friends. Once I gave refuge to the notion, even for a moment, there was no turning back to comfort again. Only a lifetime of defeats, more or less spectacular, so I'll march on to your court dates. I'll gather court dates of my own. I'll miss the ones in prisons and the ones who never made it there.

The ones who said: "Onward, comrades!" to our death, with ruin on their breath, the weight of centuries on their tongues, loading failed manifestos in their guns. As if defeat, repeated often, could someday mean we had won.

Our history's a vacant lot littered with empty bank accounts, sobbing parents, broken bones, glorious songs, lengthy prison terms, a handful of moments that were truly our own, in between desperate gasping for air worth breathing and times worth living.

In between desperate gasping for air worth breathing and times worth living in.