There’s a place I carry now—not in my hands, but in my soul.A quiet street, sun-warmed and slow,where bougainvillea petals falllike whispers tracing a dream.A little café, no hurry, no noise—just the hum of the world,the blush of the leaves,footfalls on cobblestonesAnd me—grounded and free,holding a cup of warmth in my hands,smiling at nothing,breathing in

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