
I don’t just make things pretty — I make them work.
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Among twisted roots, a wild boar rooted with its whole body It moved with the rhythm of hunger and the stubbornness of life Each snort and shuffle reminded me that survival is a form of dance
Through the grass, a lynx padded thoughtlessly Its elegance unaware of its effect I stood still, wishing to belong
Sometimes silence is not emptiness but a form of presence.
Walking in the rain makes me feel more alive than sunny days ever do. Maybe I just like things that are imperfect.