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city boy

So picture this: it's dawn, but not the gentle kind. Sun's punching through storm clouds, all bruised purple, and you're in this beat-up pickup rattling down Route Whatever-the adversary's highway, the one every billboard screams is faster. Phone's got one bar, GPS keeps rerouting you into construction zones where cranes swing like pendulums over half-dug graves. Signs everywhere: NO DUMPING painted over so many times the letters bleed red on white. You pass a landfill, mountains of trash twitching with crows, and some kid's on the shoulder selling flowers wrapped in newspaper obituaries. He's yelling prices like prayers-Three bucks! Three bucks for forget-me-nots!-but you don't have exact change. That's the world's road. It's the one everyone swears leads somewhere, but every mile marker's off by ten. Then, left turn, unmarked. No signpost, no cone, just this dirt pull-off that's somehow smooth under your tires. Grass gives way to gravel, then nothing-just packed earth, golden, warm. No potholes. Like someone graded it with a carpenter's level and a promise. Flowers? Everywhere. Not the kind from that kid, wilting already. These are wild: purple thistle laughing at the wind, white lilies nodding like they're in on a secret, and-get this-aromatic herbs you swear smell like Sabbath incense. You're driving, windows down, and the air feels... edited. Clean. Like static's been scrubbed off creation. Now here's the thing-God's road doesn't look like anything. If you flew over it'd just be a seam between fields, maybe a deer trail. But up close? It's engineered down to the atom. Stones fit like mosaic. Birds don't even swerve around your headlights; they land on the hood, chirp once, fly off-like toll collectors who forgot to charge. And the hills? Gentle swells, not the roller-coaster drops back on the interstate. Every rise lets you see further, but not so far you're lost-just enough to catch the next valley, then the next, like chapters in a book you didn't know you were reading. You're thinking: Wait, this can't be real. That's the trap. The adversary's web? It thrives on realism. His exits are labeled SUCCESS, SECURITY, MORE. Yours? Blank. But that's the point. The Tanakh-yeah, I know, you said Aramaic Renewed Covenant-talks about a highway in the desert, right? Isaiah: A highway shall be there... and it shall be called the Holy Way. No lion, no ravenous beast. Only the redeemed walk it. And here's the punch: it was built before stars. Before let there be light, the blueprint was already poured. That's why it doesn't crack. Time's just a tourist here. Up ahead, bridge. Not concrete-living wood, like the planks grew out of the riverbank. You cross, and on the other side: oasis, but not kitschy. Real. Palm roots clutching stone like they're gossiping. A spring bubbles, water so clear it shows the sky upside-down-same clouds, same sun, but purer. You splash your face; tastes like memory. Your grandpa's farm before the bank took it. First kiss under a fig tree. Sabbath candles flickering off brass kiddush cups. You laugh-actually laugh-because the road didn't give that back. It just never let you lose it. But wait-shadow. Up in the treeline. Something watching. Not threatening, just... curious. Could be angel, could be wind in leaves. Doesn't matter. On this road, fear's been demoted to weather report. You keep going. Miles stretch, but not tedious. Every turn, new detail: wild grapes dangling like they want to be wine, stones etched with names you almost remember-Abraham, Hagar, Zipporah-like graffiti from prophets. Night falls, but it's friendly. Stars crowd low, no light pollution. You park, engine off, and hear... nothing. Or everything: cicadas like kazoos, river whispering psalms, your own pulse syncing to something older. Phone? Dead. GPS? Never mattered. You don't need coordinates; the road's got its own gravity. Pulls you forward even asleep. 

Desert Highway.flac

허리춤(NCT WISH 리쿠(RIKU) AI COVER)

쿠리야

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