A cracked mirror reflects the war within — one version of me lost in shadows, the other on his knees, barely glowing in grace. The battlefield ain’t outside, it’s in the fog between my thoughts. Red scripture floats like a warning or a lifeline, depending on the day. The word “SIN” cuts across the image like a scar, but if you look close, “Grace” is still there… faint, but holding on. This ain’t about perfection. It’s about surviving the fight no one sees.

Comme un fils

Corneille

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