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An old man fed crows every morning from his porch. They waited for him, eyes gleaming with more than hunger. Sometimes, connection is forged without words, only routine.
The hardest part isn’t making choices—it’s living with them long enough to see what they mean.
There’s something oddly comforting about shared silence with someone you trust.
Across the salted snarl of reef gulps tide, foaming psalms through jaws white as frost. Spray bruises air into bruised glass, and I swallow its sting, jaw gnawed raw by hush hammered bright through teeth nailed to water’s molten hymn.