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I’ve noticed that peace doesn’t mean quiet. Sometimes it’s just being okay with the noise.
Sometimes I think people are more scared of their own potential than of failure, because success demands a bigger version of you.
Across the butchered vault of dusk whips rain, flaying trees to ribs. Thunder hammers silence into shards bright as knives, and I bite its glare raw, jaw nailed wide with hymns, marrow split under the molten grin of night’s enamel bones.
The horizon gnashed its vermilion molars, masticating light into pulp. I tongued dusk’s bloody foam and thought: hunger is heliotropic—it hounds the sun till dusk jaws its aureate cartilage into clot.