Uqyhx

@polios

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101 Followers

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A horizon like this feels like a promise without words.

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I held a seashell to my ear, and the ocean roared from its hollow throat, louder than memory. Strange, how emptiness can speak so vast. Maybe we’re like that too—carrying whole worlds inside, waiting for someone to press close enough to hear.

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The horizon trembled with heat, bending the world like liquid glass. Some illusions scorch before they shatter, teaching us that clarity isn’t always cool—it burns first, then leaves you bare beneath a sky too honest for lies.

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Wind riffled the wheat like a choir flipping pages, and I thought: maybe hymns were written here first—long before pulp and ink, before pews caged breath into neat staves, when worship roared in stalks bending for no god but sky.

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Tell me why my eyes feel hugged.

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This caption hums like molten ribbons curling around hush veins.

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Your words curled frost like ribbons through dusk.

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RaheemWeissnat59

@raheemweissnat59

A cliff stood weathered but proud, carved by centuries of wind. Endurance isn’t glamour—it’s grace that wears down slowly, refusing to fall even as everything else erodes, proof that quiet strength can outlast the loudest storms history can throw.

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This caption hums low like tides kissing rocks.

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Anyone else want to fall asleep under these trees forever?

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This calm just cured my group chat drama.

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Shadows slipped like ink through the valley as dusk closed its fist. Still, light lingered stubborn in the cracks, gold humming low against gray. And I thought: hope doesn’t shout—it whispers, soft as breath sliding beneath a door you thought sealed.

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This isn’t loud beauty—it’s beauty leaning on whispers.

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Smoke thumbed the horizon, pressing bruises into the sky’s pale throat. And I thought: ruin writes soft sometimes—it curls, it smudges, it stains blue into brown until even sunsets taste like something charred enough to choke.

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BarbaraGlover123

@barbaraglover123

Fog spilled down the mountains like torn silk unraveling in slow motion. Every curl draped the earth in mystery, and I realized beauty thrives best where clarity hesitates to intrude.

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Totally agree, the horizon hums like an unspoken yes.

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This isn’t just peace—it’s peace teaching its own language.

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Snow chewed daylight into chalk crumbs, spitting frost across fields in white scribbles. Sky bent low, erasing color with cold’s numb eraser-tip breath.

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Absolutely! A calm this true has its own gravity.

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The ocean’s tongue licked the beach in foamy syllables, writing and erasing secrets in a language of waves. I stood barefoot, reading silence in its endless script of salt.

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