Polisih
@qsssxx
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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Lucian
@lucian20
This is art in its purest form Anyone else want to frame this shot?
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