the hands arrive without warning gripped by their own shadow: pink a kind of hunger now, pink a concrete bloom, not roses but cracks, not petals but gravel dust, glittering like bad teeth in a dead nightclub the violence isn't the violence you thought. it's gold chains rattling on asphalt, a neon sign buzzing, a pool of soda syrup sticky under a lone streetlight, but never the gunshot. somewhere there is a store shelf, miles of them, endless polished spines, all bending back to you— your hands, now, the ones that took a single copy and moved millions. there's no sadness here. there's only pink. there's only the weight of what has fallen that you never lifted.