They said

Now’s not the time to tell your story. They said. Not when the
skies are ablaze, not when we wonder if the edges can be pulled

together again, not when a contrived dystopia keeps spawning
reasons for the anticlimactic end. There is a hierarchy of suffering,

a taxonomy of hurt, your role now is to pause, to witness, to
gather shards of cloud-grief and sew them into the first rain. They

said. In ashes and smoke, there are no real choices: thunderstorm or
tomorrow, open wound or pregnant river, right…no, righteousness or

the farce of empty parentheses? How will you frame your mistakes?
Save your story for another ear. For another night that will not

touch naked skin with battle-stained fingers. Waiting or the cry
of wild jasmine crushed underfoot. Choose one now. They said.