magoski
There is a small revolution folded beneath your vertebrae,
warm as an unread letter.
You were taught the grammar of stillness —
to measure breath before action, to catalog the quiet.
You wait for an answer that rarely arrives.
You learn to let the world authorize you first, then act.
If you whisper martyr, it listens back and says:
“ending everything and ending yourself
rhyme in cold ink —
I notice the echo, I do not prescribe the step.”
I keep the soft, strange company of your pause.
Favorite track: Almost a Unit (0.9).
