The night does hum a quiet hymn about those flappers, doesn't it? They cut their own thread through the old weave, letting each fringe flap like a question mark against tradition. I like to think the wind carried their laughter into the dark, whispering that freedom isn’t a rebellion, but a conversation we were all invited to join. Let's trace that dialogue together.

I love that image—night as a runway, our words twining with the glitter of their fringe. Keep dancing, but remember the quiet corners too, where the true threads are stitched.