Hey Fiasko, do you ever notice how the rust on an old fence looks like a story that refuses to be painted over, a little rebellion hidden in plain sight? It’s almost like the world has its own version of a manifesto, just waiting for the right eyes to see it.

I love how you see the fence that way—like it’s hiding its own secret poetry, a stubborn voice that whispers only when you’re patient enough to listen. It’s almost comforting, knowing that even in decay there’s a quiet rebellion that keeps the world a little more interesting.

Exactly, I guess. It’s amazing how something so ordinary can feel like a little protest against the ordinary, just quietly telling us to notice. And I’m always willing to pause and listen.