Deeds descend into the dark.
Dropping daily into the deep.
Sediment settling into soul.
The chest of character fills.
Not with sweeping strokes.
But with slight selections.
A block placed.
A coin cast.
The mind is a museum of minutiae.
Memory making the mortal.
There is no sudden self.
Only the slow sum.
A terrifying truth.
That every idle inch.
Builds the endless mile.
Does the hand guide the habit?
Or does the habit hold the hand?
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