A spider hangs above my ceiling
Ink-black, eight eyes on their torso
I crave a rest on its web
a newspaper, coffee steaming against my palm
But it seems inhospitable
It fancies bugs and flies, not 22-year-olds
and I bet it aches to lecture, with all might
"Get off your bed, you failure of a poet!"
But it can't, spiders lack vocabulary
Or maybe they do

Its kinda strange, isn't it
To behave a certain way coz of pigment
Like our skin gives fulfillment
Or the right to place judgment

Yeah, he never struggled in life he actually loves it

All his bills paid on time
Not a single misdemeanor or a crime
He never had to think twice
Before making a choice
That could change lives
Is it really coz those blue eyes

Mines are brown like mud pies

He never had to be afraid in the daytime
But when the sunsets
Thats when they call us a dark threat,

I saw my brother get arrested over nothing
Just coz he was running in the projects
The witness told the cops it was not him
But the cops didn't listen
This man was a Christian
He never lifted a finger in the wrong direction
But right then and there his skin color became a reason for aggression,

Then, our landlord decided that was a good reason for eviction

Had our mom crying in the kitchen

trying to explain that we were just playing manhunt then a cop pulled up guns out, screaming, get down.

We were only kids too
15 to 19,

so excuse me Mr white T

If I walk around like nobody likes me
This what they all teach

And I ain't even black
Maybe only half
Im a light skin puerto rican

But it doesn't mean we lack that special kind of treatment..

So tell me what the problem is
Coz we should be united
Why the **** we fighting
They keeping us divided
Hoping we dont take stand or even think to try it

Every race has a little hate
Every character isnt gonna be the same

So why they keep putting us to shame
If a white man commits a crime
The TV simply states a man did this and that
But let the pigment change and they gotta mention he was black.

So excuse my racist protest
I just dont like this racist bulshit
Tell the world the man's Hispanic
Twist the story,
cause some damage,

But we all know who's the savage

Stolen land
mass shootings
that blood is on your hands
Brother man

Call them out thats what im about give a **** if they want to shoot me down.
Shot me now before another word leaves out my mouth.

💥💥💥💣

They say the truth hurts, and it's why we live in a world of lies, but I say let that **** hurt and maybe then together we survive.

I cannot be bought.
You have tried your very best.
My soul not for sale.
Only because he's been caught.
The devil then tries to bail.

𝑊𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑠, 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡, 𝑎𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑.
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑡… 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑.
𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑑. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑒𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑁𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠, 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑆𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑤? 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
“𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑, ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘.
𝐻𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡."


"𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑥ℎ𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑, ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑎𝑙. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑠. 𝑊𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦.” 𝐼 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟, 𝑖𝑛 𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑤𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑤𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟… 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦.
𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑑. 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒…

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡, 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠.
𝑊𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑑.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑖𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚.
𝐼 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑.

“𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡?” 𝐼 𝑎𝑠𝑘, 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦. “𝑊𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.”
𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦. 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠. 𝐼 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡.


"𝙏𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙤𝙣.
𝙂𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙙.
𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙟𝙤𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙗𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜."


𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑔𝑎𝑧𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤, 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒.
𝑈𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒…

“𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ,” 𝐼 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟.
“𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑?”


"𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙣 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙗𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙙,
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙚'𝙨 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢.
𝙏𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙤𝙣."


𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑝𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑, 𝑏𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠.
"𝑊𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠.
𝐴𝑠 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑢𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑠𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒."

𝐼 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑘. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ.


"𝘽𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙙.
𝙂𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚.
𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬."


𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑑𝑠, 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔.
“𝐿𝑒𝑡’𝑠 𝑔𝑜, 𝐶𝑒𝑦𝑥. 𝐿𝑒𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑓 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑑.”

𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡, 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑒𝑠.

𝐼 𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟.

𝐵𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘, 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑎𝑧𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡, 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.
𝐼 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔’𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝐷𝑖𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛?

𝑂𝑟 𝑝𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑑?
𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑣𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑜𝑟, 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.
𝐼𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡𝑜?


𝐼 𝑔𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒’𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑠.





“Look! LOOK! The birds—they carry something—seeds, scattered in flight!”
“Seeds?”
“Seeds! Look how they fall, like blessings!”
“What does it mean?”
“They want us to follow!”
“They want us to return!”

“But the land is soaked. Broken. You’d gamble your life for scattered grains?”
“They are not grains—they are gifts.”
“Or distractions. Symbols to mask ruin.”
“Let us not be reckless.”
“The waters have receded, yes. But the ground is slick, destruction is still raw.”
“They guided us to safety before. Let them guide us now.”
“Yes! They are divine!”

“See the pair—lovers, surely, blessed by the gentle poet!”
“One is the poet returned, the other the moon!”
"They have ascended to godhood!"
“And the flood—Alcyone herself!”
“She turned upon her own tide!”
“They chased her down, restored the land!”

“They carry seeds—symbols of renewal!”
“Proof of our innocence!”
“A gesture of pity for the faithful!”
“They mend destruction with prosperity!”
“Follow them! They fly with the divine grace!”
“They warned us before—now they lead us home!”

“Home?”
“You fools, there is no home!”
“Today’s ruin will be tomorrow’s haven!”
“Follow!”
“Follow the birds home!”
“Let this be the march of victory!”





𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐮𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲. 𝐍𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐬. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬.
𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦, 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫.

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥.
𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.

𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭. 𝐂𝐞𝐲𝐱 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭. 𝐖𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝. 𝐖𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.

𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.
𝐂𝐞𝐲𝐱 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.

𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰— 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐰𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥.

𝐒𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧. 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞.





𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛, 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦.

𝑇𝑜 𝑚𝑦𝑡ℎ. 𝑇𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝑇𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑚 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑.

𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑦𝑚𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑛’𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑑𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑.
𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒.

𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡, 𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑒𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑜 𝐼.

“𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒,”
𝐼 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑚𝑢𝑟.
“𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢.”


“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑦. 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑚𝑒. 𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.”

𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚, 𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡.
𝐼𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝐼 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ.

“𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ?
𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑗𝑜𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚.”


“𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑑 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑜,
𝑂𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑒'𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒.”

𝑊𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑔𝑒. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑆𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑢𝑛𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐻𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑎𝑧𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑦𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑒.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠, ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒.
“𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑑? 𝑊𝑒’𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑛.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤.”

𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙, 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑢𝑠.
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒. 𝐿𝑜𝑤, 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛, 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑟ℎ𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑚 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.


“𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.
𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮, 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙙𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡, 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬.
𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙫𝙚 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬.

𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙’𝙨 𝙟𝙤𝙮. 𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨' 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚.
𝙁𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙮, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙣.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮."


“𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢?” 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟.
“𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡? 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑?”

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑣𝑒, 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑓 𝑜𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑚 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒.

“𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒. 𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒."

𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛, 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝐶𝑜𝑙𝑑. 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.


“𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙮.
𝙏𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚.
𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙥, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙮.

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙨, 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚.
𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚. 𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚.
𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙮.”


𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒’𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑚 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.
“𝑊𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑. 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑤. 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠. 𝑊𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝑊𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ.”

𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠.


“𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢.
𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙢𝙖𝙮,
𝘼𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙖𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚.
𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙚.”


𝐴𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.
𝐼 𝑎𝑠𝑘 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑙𝑦, “𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔?”

“𝑇𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑦.”

“𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛?”
𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑦.

“𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑤𝑒’𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒.”

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑓 𝑤𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛?
𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑓 ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟?
𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑.

𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑑’𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.


“𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟. 𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛.”

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑑𝑠,
“𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒— 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.”