Stillness in mystery. Hold the line.
The last time rarely knows what it is.
Rob Wyatt
Whiskey is confession without kindness.
The years don’t announce themselves; they slip past under cover.
The quiet was never empty.
Nothing is settled.
No more edits. No more armor.
Hold the line. Do not fire.
War was never meant for grace.
Morning comes, and I keep paying for her in questions.
Some things remain, even when distance insists they shouldn’t.
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