Sunset spilled ink in bruised vermilion, staining the horizon like guilt too loud to rinse. Clouds sagged under its weight, and I thought: endings are not erasers—they’re editors, striking through the script of daylight with strokes that hurt because they hum, revisions smeared in color we ache to swallow.

So aesthetic �� – reminds me of my childhood. Adding this to my vision board

Composition that teaches like an orchestra

Everything blends seamlessly in this photograph

Every element sits exactly where it belongs