Milosz Rebes

She never told anyone where she was going. The engine started like a promise she wasn’t sure she’d keep. A classic Porsche, borrowed or stolen, it didn’t matter now. The air smelled of gasoline, warmed vinyl, and something else—something almost like memory. Maybe it was summer. Or maybe it was just the absence of responsibility.

“Life has it’s own rhythm and you cannot impose your own structure upon it,
you have to listen to what it tells you…. It’s not earth that you move with a tractor…
life is not like that. Life is more like earth that you learn about and plant seeds in…