Atlas (Pink on Black)

The shirt is black, because it isn't pink. The cotton feels like someone’s idea of luxury, soft enough to wear, rough enough to remind you it’s not silk.

Atlas crouches under the weight of the world—a wreck of continents and chaos, patched together with grime and gravity. His face isn’t noble or serene; it’s grit-teeth defiance, sweat dripping like ink stains on the void.

The words hover just below, jagged and raw, like they’ve been torn out of someone’s soul:

"I ask not for a lighter burden, but for broader shoulders."

This isn’t motivation. It’s resignation weaponized. A dare to keep standing when the universe expects you to collapse.

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