London, 1967—love did not shatter it slowly bled. We let go without a fight and named it fate. Our hearts named it death. The city kept our silence in fog and stone where every step learned the rhyme of loss.
Greetings, Drifters of X—Jettson Nils speaking. I’m searching for kindred spirits who wander the twilight and think in quiet thunder. If these lines reach you, leave a mark—Like, Repost, or simply say “Hello” into the feed. I welcome every wandering mind that finds its way here.