In the folds of the glittering city, where footsteps rush along the pavement of illusion, and every lamp is thought to be a guide, another world disappears.
There, behind the curtains of light, time slips like a naked body in the river, gently touching everything and committing to nothing. In the depths, where shadows wrap around themselves like silk, the wise hold the silken thread that connects bodies to stories, reading what is written between the ribs in the language of touch.
Power does not lie in the grip, but in knowing when to relax the fingers to allow the moment to breathe with its own pulse. And truth does not announce itself in words, but whispers through the gaps between breaths.
Those who watch silence with eyes that do not sleep see the crowds following the false lights 😂, while the enlightened cross into the corridors of light..., where crossing does not require a loud inhale 🤣, but knowing the secret of the dark entrances that lead to the secret rooms of existence.
And true sovereignty is not for those who run after the lights, but for those who know how to light candles from within, and how to open doors without a key, at the moment when shadow blends with light as bodies blend in the night.
