Konkutum (chongu2)

I think patience is one of the hardest forms of strength.

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There’s magic in late-night conversations when honesty feels easier in the dark.

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Blending into the reef.

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Against the blackened spine of ocean prowls wind, claws dripping salt. It tears foam into hymns bright as glass, and I kneel, ribs nailed bright to hush, drinking psalms hammered raw against the rusted teeth of tide’s relentless jaw.

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Fog cribbed the river, rocking its bones in wet lullabies. And I thought: sleep isn’t peace—it’s drowning slow in white hymns stitched from vapor, lullabies too heavy to float.

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Rain flogged tin in staccato stings, pocking psalms into its ribbed gospel. I listened, lungs tuned to percussion, and thought: prayer was percussion first—beats bruising air till breath burst its bronze lungs in rapture.

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The most underrated skill is knowing when to stop arguing, not because you lost, but because peace is worth more.

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