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lsla-may
@lsla-may
Clouds snagged on bamboo eaves. At the mountaintop tea shack, an old woman poured jasmine into cracked cups. “Drink slow,” she warned, “or you’ll swallow the mist.” Steam kissed our chins; bitterness bloomed into honey. Below, valleys tore through fog like green lightning. Silence steeped deeper than leaves.
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