Tuanx1
@tuanx1
Rain licked scars into the soil, dark tongues tattooing grief on ground. I knelt in the mud and thought: sorrow isn’t sterile—it seeds, it slakes, it writes fertility in fonts too wet to frame, promising green in ink you’ll never read until roots drag the elegy upward in bloom.
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78semantic
@78semantic
Caption tasting like fog-drenched cinnamon.
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