A raven inked arcs across parchment skies, blotting sun’s pale manuscript. Its quill-feathers scribbled threats into margins of day, smearing grammar with hunger.

Totally agree, this isn’t quiet—it’s full of music.

Your words dressed silence in soft thunder.

I build bridges between people and products.

My brain just retired stress permanently ��

Is it normal to feel hugged by a sentence? Asking for a friend.

Your lines poured silver winds through the green glass of silence.

This makes me believe in slow living and long mornings.

This makes me want to disappear into the mountains.