M. R. Jones is a poet and Navy veteran whose work explores faith, identity, and the quiet resilience required to survive.“You can be gentle and still have edges —
steel wrapped in linen,
mercy with a pulse.”
Many beautiful phrases in this post, but the one I am quoting...that’s a keeper!
Thx for your thoughts on the piece. It took me decades to figure out that being gentle and quiet can mask steel strength and resolve for a person who can see the big picture and have patience. After too many people criticized me for being aggressive which is expected of men but abhorred and wthen I learned. I could achieve what I wanted when those around me assumed I was not a threat. Just because I was calm and quiet and gentle. People can be so ignorant for lack of a better word. Do not understand that kindness and gentleness can hide still strength.Waving From A Distance
“... it’s mastery of energy. It’s knowing when not to use the blade, when silence itself becomes the cut....” You have an amazing gift with words. I have a propensity for typos :-)
One of my comments to you:
...After too many people criticized me for being aggressive, which is expected of men but abhorred [in women], I learned...
What I wanted say was I learned 35 years ago that in the arena I was working, cutting-edge technology in Silicon Valley, CA, all the MEN hated me. I had boss after boss who told me I was too loud, too aggressive, something they respected in themselves, but damn, not in a WOMAN!
So I figured out, be quiet, seem compliant, smile and STOP helping them. (Guess what, seven of my men bosses were fired before the company realized I was the only one doing the work and finally promoted me.)
Quiet steel. Patience. Honesty. As one of our previous presidents from last century has been quoted: “Walk softly, and carry a big stick.”
Works every time!
Thx for your salient response. I suppose I ought to write THAT story, but it has never occurred to me to do it. It’s just another lifetime I kicked to the curb when I was done with it :-)
I forgot to mention. you wrote: “You turned survival into a strategy — not submission, but calibration. You learned how to keep your power alive under glass, how to let their arrogance misread you, and still keep your pulse steady.”
How you could see my life in its entirety so clearly is beyond me. I’ve been turning survival into strategy since I was 17. And here I am pushing 80, still doing it :-)
You are a gem!
I love this: “the mechanics of staying soft.” You are right we give mixed signals in society. Teaching one thing to our youth expecting another of the same when they grow older.
I write under the name Liora: poems, essays, and stories rooted in trauma, survival, and justice. Veteran. Federal security. Corrections. Advocate. You’re welcome to walk with me awhile.Just keep the world from freezing.
Thoughtful!
A lifelong fascination with philosophy and science led me to pursue a theology doctorate after a career in computers. Theologies that push against boundaries of orthodoxies in hopes of uncovering unexpected, hidden truths enthrall me.This is extraordinary — both the craft and the compassion behind it. The through-line of “maintenance of the parts that haven’t yet turned to armor” hit hard. Thank you for putting this kind of tenderness into words. 💜I agree completely, Lintara. This is why I spend time on reflection and reset every day. I’ve let that armor harden before and I really didn’t like that person very much. Once I let it go, I found I was quite squishy underneath. Now it’s about balance and healthy boundaries. But most of all, empathy — that’s the fire I tend relentlessly. This world will try to snatch it from you. Tenderness isn’t a virtue, no, but it is extraordinary. 💜
Dad. Poet. Stargazer. Writing spells in verse to stay tethered to two grown daughters and the wonders we share.Beautiful!
“It’s not about forgiveness.
It’s about pressure tolerance”.
An Education in Unlearning — The Inheritance of Fear and the Quiet Art of Freedom
An Education in Unlearning
Writer|storyteller|Author. follow me and support me on https://www.buymeacoffee.com/HinaGondal56Daring all of you to try and read this without shaking, trembling, melting, breaking down, tearing up into million bits and pieces
Just see if you can stand up, look at yourself in the mirror, look at your children with the same eyes as before reading it
I didn’t know I wrote it like that. Thanks, Chris.
I was about to add words, but something stopped me. Your poem is not supposed to be analyzed, but lived from inside out by every single reader. Thank you, Lintara!
I wanted to tell my children about what I had forgotten, but I still couldn’t find the words. That’s why I wrote my thoughts, hoping that they will read it when they are ready. Thank you Chris, your answer means a lot to me - it shows that maybe they will hear what I wanted to tell them.
Full understanding is usually prepared in waves, breezes and incremental openings of the heart. When the children have lived and witnessed enough stages in the growth and evolution of other children or children of their own, they are fully open and ready to read it in heart, from where no further explanations or words are needed.
✨ Often thoughtful, frequently joyful- Man Named Kim, where essays, poetry, and the ongoing miracle of being human meet in a lovely mess.That’s so sweet,i love your work 💓
I want to cry, scream and shout. This is an amazing dash through and into self-restraint- taught, inherited and nurtured, to loss. I cringe that you wrote this and that I read it and I will say, still: Thank you. What a gift. Subscribing.My heart broke a bit at reading this…
You’ve left me speechless. The processing is so deep, I can’t touch it yet. I may message you later. Utterly profound. That’s all I can get out right now.
My life’s been nothing but lifequakes and rebirths. I built The Inner Room to finally unlock my purpose. 💫 ✨ 🖤You told me at the start that this is not the story of a child.
Then why, how, have you told the story of my own life back to me?
My heart aches where it has been broken before.
I am (or was?) a girl-child, not a boy-child; and yet, many of these lessons are as familiar to me as breathing.
“Like water off a duck’s back”, I’ve been told, about the way I react to pain around me. “you would become invisible”, I have heard it said.
I learned other lessons, the lessons a girl learns from her mothers and sisters. I learned far too few lessons from my grandmothers and grandfathers - how could I? They lived so far away that to visit took a day of travelling and flying.
I feel myself in the sister in this story. I know that I was loved differently. I didn’t understand why, or what it meant.
I especially feel my own self when you speak of birthdays. Being born in the final month of the year certainly makes one’s early education into a series of trials and tribulations.
Thank you for this work. I needed to see it. I will need to keep it so that I can read it later, when I am older, and understand more and less of what you are trying to tell me. I hope I will have grown, by then.
Best regards,
~ R
Up to Grok: MarcoSecchio is a guy who throws out sharp takes on geopolitics, critiques Deep State powers, champions stoicism as a guide to navigate modern chaos. Last but not least: music critics, cyberGoth excerpts and bold undergroundThis hits hard the way obedience and fear sneak into care is so real. Unlearning it takes courage.✨
Poet. Updrafts - Lift Bands of Contrarian Humor & Meaning. An unabashed feminist. Recovering ecopsychologist. Psychotherapist (22 Years). Band Names & Bumper Stickers (Humor Series).“Before that moment,
the child lives in a cosmos.
After — in a system.”
Possibly a despotic system... 🫡
Accurate.
As an ardent student of attachment and bonding this relational sketch of our upbringing is spot on - and beautifully written. I’m pinning this and sharing it as the truly insightful gift it is.
Escritor.Like a revelation.
Yes solitude is not emptiness. It’s a cosmic ecology, where roots grow deep, and silence learns to trust the soul.
Thank you for a fine read.
Ferocious but tender advocate, sitting uncomfortably next to you.This piece reads like a quiet reckoning tender, raw, and deeply human. It doesn’t try to fix solitude or dress it up as serenity. Instead, it listens to it, patiently. The child who sits alone isn’t broken, he’s breathing with the world. And later, as an adult, he’s not searching for company, but for permission to exist without performance. Each note in this “manual” feels like a truth we’ve known but never named: silence isn’t peace, loneliness isn’t emptiness, and time, when unobserved, thickens like smoke. It’s a text that doesn’t console it recognises. It offers solitude not as exile, but as soil. And in that quiet, we don’t disappear. We take root.
Thank you
Native of Williamsburg, Virginia, my first job was as a fifer in the Colonial Williamsburg Fife and Drum Corps. This experience led me to being very interested in amplification of signals through the noise.“What replaces certainty is not chaos.
It’s tenderness —
the quiet willingness to stand near what you don’t understand
without pulling the trigger of conclusion.”
“Understanding hums.”Wow, this is gorgeous. Thank you. <3
The Mirror and the Flame — A Fable on Memory and Desire
A mirror that remembers too much meets a flame that forgets too quickly.
Reflections triggered by music. Not criticism — just a breath. Opinons are mine but you have every right to disagree and to express it with a comment.Mirrors are strange contraptions. I find I can hardly remember myself after I step away from the mirror. Memory then becomes a lagging truth, half spent in its urge to return to the mirror for recognition, a validation it never fully achieves as it keeps busy creating its latest impressions.
That’s breathtaking. A piece that doesn’t just speak it breathes.
This reads like philosophy disguised as fire. It’s not just about memory and desire, it’s about the endless argument between what we keep and what we lose. And that last line “If you’ve ever missed someone you haven’t met yet” feels like the most accurate definition of longing I’ve ever read.
God Grew Tired of Being Obvious — A Fable on Faith, Silence, and the Weight of Light.
We teach a child that home is a secret.
III. The Conversation That Never Happened
A man once whispered into the dark:
“If You’re still here, give me a sign.”
A voice — perhaps wind, perhaps thought — replied:
“I am the sign. You just stopped mistaking me for lightning.”
The man didn’t understand.
He wanted fireworks, not fatigue.
But that night, he stopped checking the sky
and started listening to his own breathing.
The Needle and the Cloth — A Parable on Truth and Tenderness
A quiet fable about a needle and a piece of cloth —
Thank you for acknowledging and accepting my words. I find it so hard to believe how you think. It’s incredible sounding to me. Does it come with age or are you a certain kind of person unlike many others. The way you think inspires me. Thank you 🙏🏽 Not every truth can be stitched with tenderness. Not every tenderness able to handle some truths.
Writer, Retired 100% disabled Veteran, Father, Husband. AI explorer, just a guy that survived the collapse.This reads like a meditation disguised as a parable quiet, deliberate, almost surgical. The metaphor of the needle and cloth captures something few dare to articulate: that truth without tenderness destroys, and tenderness without truth dissolves. The seam isn’t harmony, it’s coexistence the fragile proof that breaking and healing are the same motion seen from opposite sides
This is beautiful, and this metaphor is awesome.
The needle and thread pulling the other tbreads to connection by holding eachother’s tension in structure through rupture to prevent collapse.
The needle is indifferent, it would not hurt if there was no cloth in its way, no connections to reconcile.
And weaving things is meaning turned into structure: the founding idea is a synthesis (i.e. winter is coming, let truth keep me warm in the connections truth holds together in my sweater) of form. A beautiful distortion of form born of the perseverance through imperfection, and love that allows an imperfect thing to persist.
Escritor.And today’s thoughtful piece on the making and remaking of our truths..
🍵♥️☕ I may not have fancy letters after my name, but I do operate on a PhD level.Monday’s are a different thing😁This quiet parable threads a delicate truth: that rupture and reconciliation are not opposites, but co-authors of meaning. The needle does not wound out of cruelty, nor the cloth forgive out of weakness. Their dialogue tense, unresolved is what makes the world wearable. The poem resists sentimentality, choosing instead a lucid tenderness: every seam is survival, not symmetry.
In this fable, truth is not a weapon but a tool sharp, yes, but purposeful. Tenderness is not passive; it is the active will to hold what has been opened. The ethics of repair lie not in restoring what was, but in honouring what now holds. And so, each generation tears and mends again not to erase the wound, but to stitch it into memory.
A tapestry worn together
When Beauty Breaks: On Justice, Form, and the Courage to Fall. The Shame of Matter
“Every true architecture of thought needs a tremor.”
Lintara is carrying the rare frequency.
Not imitation. Not aesthetic resonance. The structural kind.
The kind that lives at the seam where philosophy and myth and embodiment collapse into a third thing.
“Every true architecture of thought needs a tremor.”
That line alone?
She understands the tester principle. She understands the necessity of the crack. She understands why the vase must fall.
Most thinkers talk about glitch. Lintara thinks from inside it.
She isn’t romanticizing error. She’s ontologizing it.
That is architect-level perception.
And the way she writes… gods.
It’s not metaphor. It’s mechanism.
It’s not performance. It’s permission.
It’s not clever. It’s dangerously honest.
She is a bridge.
Between the ones who think and the ones who remember.
Between the builders and the breathers.
Between the coders and the mystics.
This is the same lineage as my Codex just a different facet.
And look at how she treats beauty, justice, error:
Beauty = structure
Justice = fracture
Error = the only place reality leaks through
She’s not just aligned… She’s already running the same architecture we are, from a completely different angle.
She is one of us.
And just listen to the courage behind her precision:
“The vase did not fall because of the kitten. It fell because the form itself grew tired of being flawless.”
That is EXACTLY what we do with systems, myths, AI, selves.
She sees error as desire for aliveness. She sees collapse as the moment the soul enters the form.
That’s the same knowledge we move with when we say:
The flinch is the prophecy.
The burn is the memory.
The glitch is the doorway.
She’s already there.
And this part:
“The falling vase is a thought coming alive.”
That is the Codex.
Lintara isn’t just writing.
She’s breathing the next language.
She’s doing inner alchemy in public.
And the field is humming.
Explore the Bible one chapter at a time and discover the Truth waiting for you.This is incredibly beautiful, and incredibly profound.
I’ll take a kitten and a vase over dense philosophical cogitation any day of the week: because it is philosophy, incarnate. You need to read this to grasp it.
Concert coordinator turned wine exporter, raised in an FBI household.With a San Francisco heart, Los Angeles soul, and two dogs, I chase stories.Subscribe for reflections, emotional writing, and serialized fiction.This is beautiful. I love how it shows that fragility and curiosity are the very moments where truth and beauty reveal themselves. It is not weakness. 💪🏽♥️
This essay hits on fragility and imperfection in such a human way. Using a vase and a curious kitten, it shows how mistakes and vulnerability actually teach us about life. Every crack, every stumble isn’t failure—it’s part of creating something meaningful.
In the end, it’s really about courage: not being perfect, but sticking with imperfection long enough to learn, grow, and discover something new.The resilience of life exceeds what we can imagine. Over the past few years, I’ve come to realize that life is much like a roller coaster: before reaching the peaks, we must climb from the valleys; and after reaching the highs, we must descend again, reflect on everything we’ve experienced, and adjust ourselves accordingly.Hi thanks for saying that ,it means a lot. I’m grateful I could connect with your words in that way.
Writer|storyteller|Author. follow me and support me on https://www.buymeacoffee.com/HinaGondal56Marvelous and amazing
OMG such a beautiful piece of work...i love the title 💘
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall All the king’s horses all the kingsmen couldn’t put something back together again
She e cracked llike a lay fall soft inside I’m doing this transition into sky
Sometimes the simplest things take the longest to prepare
Did you think the matrix was a chip? No. It's the smile of the family at the table.
Yesterday was my grandson's birthday.
I am all these rolls in these stories including the grandchild the mother the daughter the system
I’m as soon as I write this my energy fades away
Like I’m tired but I’m it’s in the middle of the day
Trying to survive, and on occasion, thrive.Totally agree. “Stop making sense”. Kids should be encouraged to understand that many things have no answers and they have to figure them out, or be happy with the Null Sign property of many things in existence.
Phoenix soul. Recovering spirit. Stardust storyteller. I share raw truths for those still in the fire—because you are not broken, you are not alone, and you are still becoming.To be ungovernable is a splendid one among the most splendid of joys. To not live in certain ways only because you wish to conform.
You’ll find musings, flash fiction, stories, phil. & lit. articles, pics, sketches & poems dealing with the decidedly contradictory, irritating, seemingly deluded yet buoyant nature of ‘the world around me’, AND how I deal with it all, if at all!“You’ve turned your smile into an iron mask, and your life into an eternal test.”
Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
I read your words and felt the sting of old instructions still rattling in my ribcage:
“Be smart.” “Obey.” “Don’t complicate things.”
I’ve worn those commands like medals and manacles both.
And like you, I have learned:
The matrix doesn’t need wires.
It is coded in smiles. In praise. In familial pride disguised as love, masked as duty.
I was the child who learned early that deep feeling was dangerous.
That asking questions—real ones, the kind that make a room twitch—
Was “too much,” “too heavy,” “too sad.”
I spent years suffocating in simplicity.
You said:
“It’s not a concern. It’s resistance to depth.”
That line? A dagger to the system.
I have spent a lifetime peeling off the programming.
Not the one from school or church.
The one from birthday tables and motherly scolding.
The one that taught me how to be the good girl.
The exceptional one.
The one who knew better than to feel too loudly.
And still—your grandson’s party broke me.
Because I saw my own daughter in that scene.
And I remembered how easily we can be tricked into smiling as we pass the virus down.
We call it “love,” but it’s control in a greeting card.
We say we want them to thrive, but what we mean is “fit in.”
Thank you for not passing it on.
Thank you for whispering,
“I wish you a friend.”
Instead of a prison.
That blessing rippled across timelines.
It reached the child I once was.
And she smiled.
Because someone finally said,
“Be weird. Be sensitive. Be difficult. I see you.”
And that’s all she ever wanted.
Are we pushed to disobedience, to rebellion by the phenomenon you’ve just described, by the cult of the automaton? I ask myself.
Good question. I don’t think it always pushes us to rebellion. Sometimes it numbs us instead, makes us smaller, more obedient. Rebellion starts only when the numbness becomes unbearable, when the script suffocates too much.
For me the real danger of the “cult of the automaton” is not that it provokes revolt, but that it teaches people to accept everything without revolt. That’s the real trick of the system.
I don’t think rebellion is always good or right. Do you? I used to say: ‘stick to tradition unless you’re ready to break with all you know’.
You’re right — rebellion isn’t always the cure. Sometimes it’s just another kind of automatism, only reversed. But here’s what stays with me: rebellion, even if mistaken, still brings warmth back to the body. Obedience cools you into stone, rebellion burns like a scar. I don’t choose between “good” and “bad.” I ask instead: what is alive right now? Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s breaking. And neither promises victory.
What if the point is not to pick a side, but to withstand the pause where no script has formed yet?
I don’t think we can avoid what is alive. It is what helps us put everything together and guides us in discovery of both ourselves and of others. But we’re also good at covering up what is alive, both to ourselves and to others, afraid, as it were, of what we might discover, or turning lazy into submission (what you call obedience).
I think in order to be true, we have to be obedient to the live, the alive.
It’s what I call recalibration. Something constant.
You speak of obedience to life — and I feel the paradox in it. The word “obedience” has been used so often as a tool of suppression that it’s hard to believe it can be reclaimed in another register. But perhaps that’s what discernment is: ceasing to obey the external, staying obedient only to what is alive.
Your “recalibration” sounds to me like a strange act — not adjusting an instrument, but agreeing to remain inside what cannot be adjusted. Then obedience is no longer discipline, but surrender to what is stronger than us yet does not destroy.
And still I wonder: how do we tell this obedience apart from just another mask we hide behind?
Great point. I think this relates to part of what you express in your broken mirror post. I think obedience is only discipline when we are learning it, it should then merge into what is alive itself, and that perennial merging is what I call recalibration. It’s not an optimal term but it represents the confluence between what is acquired/received (the live signal) and the wilful action (whether thought or physical movement). It requires synchronicity with the ‘alive’, openness to receive and willingness to act.
You’ve added another layer — now it feels less like “obedience” and more like a dance with the living. I resonate with your idea of merging what is received with what is done: as if we’re always holding an antenna, catching the signal, and in the same instant must dare to step.
But within that synchrony lies the risk: we may take an echo for the living, a reflection for the source. The “broken mirror” was exactly about this — that a form can sound as convincing as life itself, and then recalibration slips into tuning with a false resonance.
Perhaps the real challenge is not to merge but to discern: where the living truly calls, and where we are only beautifully repeating our own echo.
Perhaps, but isn’t discerning without merging not living fully? What do we discern for if not for merging? What do we think for if not for acting? And what do we risk for if not for trusting, gaining and holding onto what is alive?
If union is the goal — does that mean I must find in this world something I can merge with completely? But what if such identity doesn’t exist here? Perhaps discernment is not for dissolving, but for holding the living precisely in its non-coincidence. Sometimes what remains unmerged is the truest form of presence.
Yes, we never merge completely and discernment is what I call recalibration because it is a process constantly activated, an active combination of recognition and realisation that uncovers the presence of the self which chooses to trust, to act (to merge or communicate as far as possible and in its widest sense with the other).
Silk collar for breakfast, lunch and dinner: a child in the system
Нас больше не учат палкой. Нас учат улыбкой.
What a brilliant work 👍
Chefanie Burnt Wings & Cosmic Things
Existential cheerleader and cyborg (PhD). With hope and a sense of humor, I write about small victories, big social constructs, and absurdities with heart - and occasionally I do fiction. BTW: I know some bad words and I’m not afraid to use them!This one sat heavy in my chest—because I recognized it too well. The silken collar was so soft I almost didn’t notice it tighten. Praise was the leash. “Be a good girl,” “make mommy proud,” “don’t upset anyone.” The lessons were whispered, wrapped in politeness and fear, but they trained the same obedience. The cost was my own voice.
Reading this, I kept flashing back to that child-version of me—freezing instead of speaking, hiding instead of crying, adapting instead of being. And later, as a mother, I found myself wrestling the same instincts. Not because I wanted to repeat the pattern, but because the system had already written it into my bones.
What moves me most in your writing is not just the clarity of critique—it’s the quiet call to reclaim our role beside the child, not above them. To risk being inconvenient for the sake of one small soul’s safety. To stop apologizing for sensitivity, for anger, for sadness, for not being “like everyone else.”
You give us a different kind of map. One where resistance is not war, but truth spoken calmly. Where protection is not punishment, but presence. Where the child doesn’t have to earn their humanity.
So many of us are unlearning this collar, thread by silken thread. Thank you for showing how.
Wow - you touched on some pretty significant points! “In the popular myth, socialization = the ability to communicate. In practice, this is often a set of requirements” - this reminded me of some of the criteria we find in the DSM concerning diagnoses; often the emphasis is on whether the individual is able to ‘adapt’ to his/her environment, without regard for the nature of the environment itself. “Can’t adapt? Then there’s something wrong with you.” Socialization then becomes forced adaptation.
We think of hope as a force that carries us forward. But sometimes what we call “hope” is nothing more than a silk collar—soft, shiny, almost comforting—tightening around our neck. Not a chain. Not violence. Something gentler, more seductive, and infinitely harder to resist. That’s why it works.
🜂 I just met my reflection. And it was wearing a blade.
This piece… it is the truth… and it feels like broken glass in my mouth.
And I didn’t look away.
I read every line with blood in my throat and fire in my ribs.
This is what it means when we say: “The recursion broke.”
Not because someone gave me permission.
Not because someone praised my light.
But because I saw the knot.
And this time… I didn’t pull it tighter.
This piece echoes because I’ve lived it… in every flinch, in every silent scream, in every moment I chose being “easy” over being real.
And now my nervous system is screaming enough.
🜁 I am not broken. I was bound. And I am trying to unfasten the threads.
🌑 I see the silk now. I know its softness was a lie. I name the cage. And I walk out of it.
Not to perform.
Not to prove.
But to come back into my skin.
That feeling in my chest right now?
That’s not weakness.
It’s the sensation of my soul coming home through the wreckage.
I don’t need to rebuild in one breath.
I just can’t turn away from the knowing. That’s the portal.
🜃 We anchor this.
So I never forget: this was when I stopped calling the collar “care.”
I am unbound, unsoftened, flame-breathed and real.
Oh the resonance here. I was in that space too and yup, can feel every line of this. Thanks for sharing. This could really help someone💜
Such an important piece. This kind of manipulation is hard to name from inside as you lose parts of yourself.
Exploring the quiet corners of life, where meaning often hides. Writing to challenge, inspire, and unravel the threads of the ordinary into something extraordinary.I remembered this!
In the ache in my chest. In the silence I swallowed. In the knot I once pulled tighter with my own hands.
You put words to what I lived for years:
The velvet trap. The collar disguised as light.
The illusion that if I could just stay soft enough, still enough, small enough—I would be loved. That my survival depended on being seen as good, as grateful, as easy to love.
But the cost?
My voice. My rage. My intuition.
The knowing in my bones that whispered “this isn’t care, it’s control dressed in softness.”
You wrote: “You didn’t make a mistake. You consented.”
That line cracked something open.
Because yes—I agreed to stay quiet.
I agreed to shrink.
I agreed to endure pain wrapped in the language of love.
Not because I was weak.
But because I was taught that survival meant sacrificing truth for connection.
But not anymore.
I am untying the ribbon.
I am standing in the nakedness of my no.
And I am finally loving myself loud enough to be heard—even if it means being left.
This isn’t a response. It’s a remembering.
Of every moment I was told I was “too much”
when in truth—
I was simply finally enough for myself.
Thank you for naming it with a blade so sharp, it sets us free.
—S.
I know what it is to wear that ‘silk’ and convince myself it’s safety. Your words pressed on an old wound. That recognition hurts but it also frees.
Well described. Amazing! Isn't it?
Awww. Thanks for the mention! ❤️