I once read how all the cocaine burst out of Richard Prior like he was a piñata and now the kids from that birthday party, extras in a film of his, all day on a set of burnt grass and hugging balloons, how now they believe in negro angels and try to open every terrible door with a baseball bat and a skull cap or a joke about black habits or a line from a Pam Grier flick like you don't know love what is. I read that I was one of those kids. A bulge in the minutes makes us scream inside. I remember now, how we can make sound without being seen. How this scream creates room for silence
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