Truth, spoken in the dark of an evening:
That angel is code.
Photoshop layers, AI brushes, a prompt typed by someone chasing likes.
The wings are clipped from a gull’s corpse in some stock library.
The book? A 3D model, texture-mapped with fake gold.
No one is reading.
No one is guarding.
You’re on the third floor, fan spinning like a tired prayer.
The power cut an hour ago.
Your phone battery is at 19%.
The generator downstairs coughs like an old man who never learned to die.
There is no tower.
Only the cracked balcony rail you lean on,
watching headlights weave through dust and exhaust.
The sky is orange from haze,
not divine glow.
No book holds your name.
No wings will lift you.
A voice from the kitchen—
“Come eat before it gets cold”—
that is the only scripture you need tonight.
You are flesh.
You are sweat.
You are hunger.
You are the small, stubborn pulse
in your wrist
that refuses to quit
even when the world forgets to care.
That is the truth.
No metaphors.
No mercy.
Just the heat, the noise, the now.
That angel is code.
Photoshop layers, AI brushes, a prompt typed by someone chasing likes.
The wings are clipped from a gull’s corpse in some stock library.
The book? A 3D model, texture-mapped with fake gold.
No one is reading.
No one is guarding.
You’re on the third floor, fan spinning like a tired prayer.
The power cut an hour ago.
Your phone battery is at 19%.
The generator downstairs coughs like an old man who never learned to die.
There is no tower.
Only the cracked balcony rail you lean on,
watching headlights weave through dust and exhaust.
The sky is orange from haze,
not divine glow.
No book holds your name.
No wings will lift you.
A voice from the kitchen—
“Come eat before it gets cold”—
that is the only scripture you need tonight.
You are flesh.
You are sweat.
You are hunger.
You are the small, stubborn pulse
in your wrist
that refuses to quit
even when the world forgets to care.
That is the truth.
No metaphors.
No mercy.
Just the heat, the noise, the now.
The Sunday Circle