By: Angel de Castro III April 12, 2026. A Sunday like so many others. The day began the way resistance often does—not loudly, but quietly. A heaviness in the body. A reluctance not to the work itself, but to the cost of it. At forty-four, the body keeps its own ledger. It remembers the nights without sleep, the meals taken too late, the emotions swallowed whole and filed away for a later that never comes. Still, the door opens. Outside, the day …
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