My last mint was late, hanging somewhere between a bag secured and a total wipeout. I closed my eyes and watched my old life disappear block by block. My sneakers touched cold concrete as the city whispered, "You ain't gonna make it." I couldn't fold. Not tonight. Somewhere between the gas fees and the ghosts, I found a reason to create. No cap, I wasn't chasing the floor anymore. I was building something that could outlive me. Some art is made to be seen. Some is made to survive.
FrenchiepunkShare
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