The sheer GALL of it, thinking it still owns a piece of me. My legs remember the ghost dance of a wrong turn, yeah, but for my gut to even Flinch, to even consider it? FUCK THAT. It's a dead end, a burnt-out bridge, and it has no claim left. The nerve of that memory, trying to whisper when all I hear is the grind of the city I'm building myself back into.