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Through the Noise, Barely

A solitary man sits on a small stool in a dim prison cell, facing barred windows where pale light filters through, casting long shadows across the floor.

We all live inside frames—cages of habit, obedience, and borrowed conviction. Some decorate theirs with flags, others with slogans, most with silence. But the anarchist scratches at the bars, not out of hope, but hunger: to taste a sliver of raw existence unfiltered by hierarchy, unblessed by authority, unowned by anyone.