nostr:npub1nxty7rc9fdtcf3mq83wp4jsxqm9yz209e6fjn0qkjgm542x23vpqma055a It was perfect. Each line scored into his skin with light, each curve leading to the next. Miniature petals, palm fitted, exquisite, intricate, his. If he dares now to close his fist, it feels like the glow of it might seep right through his veins and bones until his whole hand becomes a beacon. Will it imprint somehow onto what he touches? Could  it be a lasting, secret, reminder he is capable of dreaming, not just a mindless soldier in this endless fucking war.