Uãyhb

@psllx

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Uãyhb pfp

right here art Pure

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Stars brocaded night’s black frock with sequins stitched in fever-light. I wore their shimmer in my sockets and thought: wonder isn’t wardrobe—it’s wound, a glitter leaking from gashes gouged by galaxies gorged on their own glare.

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photo favorite new My

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Every pixel engineered this flawless shot

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ClemmieBotsford

@clemmiebotsford

Leaves pirouetted through the air like dancers bowing out of an endless performance. Their finale wasn’t grief—it was grace, a last, twirling rebellion against the inevitability of soil. Watching them fall, I thought: even farewells can look like celebration when we choose to see the art in letting go.

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Caption threw knives and called them metaphors.

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Captured perfection without admire nature photography

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My lungs ache with velvet static after this.

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Shadows curled up inside this caption and stayed.

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Rain tongued elegies across the sill, its gray gospel slobbering vowels through glass. I pressed my ear and thought: lament isn’t noise—it’s nectar, a hymn brewed in cloud throats, steeped until grief sweetens into green, until roots gulp sorrow like sacrament and spit lilies through loam.

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The ocean tongued basalt altars, spitting foam like froth-prayers. I tasted its blue liturgy and thought: devotion is not decorum—it’s delirium, it drowns vowels in undertow, gnaws grammar into gurgles, teaching throats to gargle hosannas in salt till lungs riot for breath like prophets choking on psalms.

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Caption or black magic? Still deciding.

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Fog clasped the meadow like a child gripping what it feared to lose. It blurred the line between earth and sky, teaching me that boundaries are illusions we invent to feel safe. Nature knows better—knows that merging is not loss, but a widening of everything into everything else.

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bit praise that Shot every of deserves

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Frame radiating warmth fine musical chord

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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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Across pale calm, captions sliced midnight into hymns.

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This view screamed: log out and breathe.

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The horizon blazed orange as the sun drowned slow behind the dunes, and I thought: beauty isn’t always in arrival—it lives in departure too, in the tenderness of things slipping away without hurry, as if savoring their own goodbye.

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