“Every soul got a science to it … pressure points, fracture lines … ways the light bends when it hits the hurt.” Sparse ambience only; no beat until the final phrase. “Met a man made of mirrors, he don’t look me in the eye. Flashes pieces of the past like satellites passing by. He talk in echoes, half-truth syllables, built a house outta smoke. Every joke a parachute, keep from choking on the note.” “I see patterns in people, constellations split in two. The stars still shine; they just forgot they used to.” “We’re prisms, not prisons, refracting the pain we survived. You can call it broken, but that’s just light learning to divide.” “I got glass bones from my own storm, tryna not to bleed on what I build. I map the cracks, trace the fault lines, turn the tremor into will. Some drown in their silence, some weaponize the waves. But all of us just learning how to baptize what we’ve braved.” “Grace ain’t soft; it’s stubborn. It’s steel that remembers fire. It’s saying ‘I am not the shatter, I’m the sound that it inspires.’” “We’re prisms, not prisons, bending what once confined. Every scar a spectrum, a new color of the divine.” “So when I meet a stranger, I don’t ask what broke you. I just listen for the wavelength that still makes you shine.”
