

S is the kind of fearless who treats chaos like a mentor and shouts anger into a fan so it blows back, chopped and distorted, like the dramatic downbeats of a funk-like requiem that gathers pain, clips its fangs, then uses its skinned fur to prompt warmth into chilled, blistered toes before nurturing your soul with warm mugfulls of frothy coffee splashed with whiskey and pear fritters oozing maple honey glaze onto your fingers, saturating your tongue until you float and forget.
