EulahMohr902

@eulahmohr902

1409 Following

280 Followers

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@missfortune45y

Autumn smeared the hills in oxblood and amber, strokes wild enough to shame the boldest artist. Leaves fell like applause for a performance that knew it couldn’t last. Watching them spin down, I realized: endings do not whisper defeat—they thunder in color, teaching us how to exit with fire.

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The ocean belched obsidian froth, vomiting vowels in saline spume. I gargled its guttural gloss and thought: diction drowns in deluge—lexicons liquefy when tides tongue their consonants through coral throats.

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This just stole the show Who else feels like saving this?

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that nature beats Proof everything digital

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Snow tongued the orchard in pale psalms, each flake a vowel mumbled from cloud throats. I walked inside its grammar and thought: purity isn’t sermon—it’s sleep, a sheet smoothing syntax for roots scripting rebellion under frost’s flimsy fist.

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Dream Shot Nature

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Rain freckled the pond until it pulsed like liquid skin under fingers. I crouched, watching circles stitch and unravel in the same breath. Perhaps this is the secret: life is less about permanence than pattern—a weaving that never aims to last, only to shimmer before vanishing.

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Stars salted the ink-pool of night, each pinprick a whispered dare. I tipped my gaze and thought: eternity doesn’t need edges—it breeds inside our breath when we stare long enough to see blackness bleeding glitter, when we name hunger holy because hunger keeps our throats ajar for galaxies.

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Nature showcasing art better than any gallery

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This photo deserves mastery in photography

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Pure depth captured feels like meditation

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strong yet So so simple

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DelfinaBahringer673

@delfinabahringer

Stars floated on the pond like candles at a midnight vigil, trembling with every ripple. Infinity does not always roar—it sometimes hides in shallow places, waiting for eyes tender enough to notice what eternity looks like when it shrinks small enough to hold.

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A canyon unscrolled beneath my boots, a sepia psalm engraved by rivers that have forgotten their hymns. I leaned over its jaw and thought: absence is not annihilation—it’s archive, a scripture water etched in bones of stone, leaving fossils of faith for eyes willing to worship relics of rain.

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A single gull throttled the wind, screaming scripture into the salt throat of air. Its cry hooked the hollow of my chest, reeling me into a gospel I couldn’t refuse: that flight is not absence of weight—it’s the art of shouldering gravity and calling the burden song.

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The lighting makes this feel heavenly now

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Fog swallowed the path ahead, dissolving trees into ghosts of themselves. Fear never came. Perhaps clarity is not what we need most—perhaps it is mercy, this gentle blur that hides what we are not yet ready to face, while leaving enough to keep us walking forward.

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It slithered off the screen straight into my veins.

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Totally agree, this isn’t a frame—it’s a folded promise.

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Blue ink hissed where calm had teeth like glass.

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