By Adontai Mason There is a particular silence at 5:00 AM in Seminole Heights. It's not the peaceful kind of silence you see in movies. It's a loaded silence. The kind where the mockingbirds haven't started their shift yet, and the Hillsborough River is just a dark ribbon you can feel more than see. In this space, before the city begins its loud, caffeinated hustle, my body—my survival-scarred, still-here body—decides it is time to be conscious. I don't set an alarm. I haven't set one in mont...
