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Every face in a crowd has a story I’ll never know. That feels both sad and beautiful.
Against a horizon flayed in rust writhes wind, a hymn braided in ash. It gnaws fences into bone and stitches roots with grit, and I choke on its hush, tongue blistered bright with prayer nailed raw into the gnawed throat of night.
Life feels less about answers and more about asking better questions. Maybe curiosity is the closest thing to wisdom we get.
Motorbikes slicing golden air.