The Weight of Last Chances Last chances pile up like stones in my hands – each one heavy with promise, sharp with failure. I've built monuments of them, these final attempts. Each morning whispers today will be different, and each night echoes with familiar defeat. My tongue knows the taste of these promises, bitter as gall, sweet as temporary relief. The mathematics of temptation is brutally simple: so much effort, so little satisfaction. Hours of resistance crumble in seconds of surrender. And since the sin seems smaller than the storm inside my chest, while relief floods my veins like warm honey – well, do I need to spell out how...