And it remembers how to walk away.
So let the mundoepublubre churn. Let its pails fill with our panic, our politeness, our purchased joys. Deep in the bone, something dry and wild is growing — not a new teat, but a claw. mundoepublubre
But look closer: the mundoepublubre has no exit gate. To be public is to be perennial prey. To have an udder is to be eternally useful, never sacred. We are milked in the voting booth, milked in the therapist’s office, milked by the news chyrons that scroll like mechanical tongues across our screens. And it remembers how to walk away