The canyon yawned beneath me, vast and veined with shadow. Wind spiraled up its throat, carrying whispers stitched from centuries of silence—a hymn no language could translate without breaking.

Your lines braided silk roots through my bloodstream.

Creativity is not a skill — it’s my mindset.

This silence dragged me to church softly.

Yes, the air in this picture feels almost holy.

True words, stillness humming: stay awhile.

True words, it’s where stress goes to die.

Totally agree, if peace painted, it’s this.