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The shadows stretched long as the sun dipped low, and I found comfort in how the world quiets itself at dusk. There’s no rush to end the day—only a slow settling. That rhythm reminded me that closing doesn’t mean failure. It means rest. It means preparation. It means I’ll begin again soon.
Among kelp forests, sea otters floated with hands clasped like prayers They napped as waves sang over them Peace isn’t the absence of fear—it’s comfort with its rhythm
Beneath the wolf-pelt sky writhes aurora, scales molten green and stitched with fire. It swallows stars into throats of silk, and my breath fractures under its clawed hush, knowing wonder isn’t mercy—it’s hunger barbed in ribbons of light.