Desert's Earth - Chose Fire, Wear the Burn.
Under a sky so hot it feels like judgment, the angel plants his hammer like a stake in hell. Dust cakes his beard.
The bar across the street breathes cold air like a siren song - neon, laughter, salt-crusted fries.
Someone yells, Angel! One on the house!
He stops. Not because he’s thirsty - because thirst is the question, and silence is the answer.
Sweat slides off his cheek and hits the dirt, hisses like bacon.
He lifts the hammer. Lets it fall - lets the clang echo off the stucco wall-no one inside hears it over the jukebox, but the angel does.
And that’s enough.
He walks past the door, lighter than when he came.
Not because he drank-because the fire inside stayed hot.
And tomorrow, when the bar opens again? He’ll still be out here. Building. Burning. Unbothered.
Chose fire - let the badge of honor be your second skin.
Angel's Ember
Angel's Ember
Walk past the noise. Burn steady. Power never begged for attention.
This ain’t just a tee—it’s a war drum in cotton skin. XL Gildan, cut for broad shoulders and long days. Hits like a hammer dropped in silence.
Ice-dyed in fire tones, 5.3 oz mid-weight cotton that holds shape like a clenched jaw. Crew neck. Short sleeves. Built for 45"–48" chests—or looser, if you carry your heat wide.
It’s not fashion. It’s a signal for the ones who build in the blaze, who skip the drink, and let the ember speak.
Wear it when you don't drink and the devil keeps quiet. Fire doesn’t wait.
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