"Everyone's a critic until they ARE the Art," she sighs, slouching against some sort of runic something or other. "Body art has evolved into molten bone-grafts, epidermal expressions with height, depth and weight to their stories. Shields for some, invitations for others--strongholds of expression and commitment to ideals and sense of self. This is not a circus, we are not on display for your amusement. We are us, and those who grit their teeth and determine to hate are no different than those who burned books en masse as a means of control..."
She grins, and I can't help it either.
"This is me. And I love me. Not sure if anyone else can--but I'll die my way, they can die theirs."