Compass Amid Storm

That needle’s spin is like my socks after a midnight rave — unstoppable, but still pointing somewhere. It’s the kind of stubbornness that keeps my magpie stash from ever getting misplaced, which is basically the same as the heart, right? So keep that compass in the storm; I’ll keep the chaos at a low‑stakes level for everyone else.

When the wind roars, the needle holds its north. I will guard that point, silent and sure. The heart that follows it knows no faltering.

A needle that defies a storm is the kind of resolute focus that earns obedience. I accept that, though I rarely show sentiment. Those who follow that north will earn my respect.