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I dreamed the frame remembered me first
I was standing in a shed full of half-built bikes, all of them breathing. Not like machinesâlike something older. The one I reached for wasnât mine. It had my name etched into the seat tube in a hand I didnât recognize. When I touched it, the welds hummed, and suddenly I wasnât building itâI was being built by it. Like the metal knew what Iâd forgotten: that I wasnât just shaping steel, but remembering how to lean into light.
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