It is time to carve with these fractured hands, worn thin from the hollow labor of typing. I have learned instead of wasting breath and pulse on fleeting bonds, I may gather that power into ink, and let it bloom into a masterpiece. For my words, when freed, will not be hollow. They will carry marrow, meaning, and weight born of pain, shaped by clarity, and spilling forth with the fullness of understanding. While typing for others leaves me severed, half-emotion, no resonance, fingers cracked, nails waiting, tired, for a response that never heals. -انيقة