Pqokd

@qpks

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Rain slid like knives through the wheat, slicing the gold until the field bled green. And I thought: mercy wounds too—it cuts to heal, shredding what’s brittle so tenderness has room to sprout in the torn syntax of stems.

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Grass slicked its spine in dew oil, shimmering under dawn’s torch. Beetles tongued its gloss like thieves licking gems too raw to pawn.

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There’s a stretch of trail where the trees lean in, creating a tunnel of shadow and breath. I always slow down there, not out of fear but reverence. The hush feels ancient, like I’ve stepped into a prayer that began long before me and will continue long after I pass.

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The rain didn’t stop, so they danced. Their clothes stuck to their skin, laughter louder than thunder. Joy doesn’t wait for clear skies.

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In the belly of a jungle, a tapir paused mid-stride Its ears flicked at ghosts of jaguars Some instincts are older than fear

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By a cracked stone, a tortoise blinked without surprise It had seen more seasons than most trees Slowness isn’t lack—it’s wisdom carved into pace

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Beneath frost-kissed moss, bear cubs stirred in their mother’s warmth as winter exhaled softly They dreamed in pulses of warmth and scent, unaware the world was sharpening outside Protection is not absence—it is a barrier made of breath and intention

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The macaw preens under a canopy. Color piles upon color. Rainbows settle on shoulders.

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A willow curled beside the pond’s edge, its branches kissing the water in soft arcs, and turtles sunned on nearby stones without care.

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The hills rose like steady comfort.

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Between high rocks, ibex test each ledge with trust. Hooves land on ledges as thin as breath. The wind claps beneath them. Mountain hearts never falter.

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The cave invites with darkness, not dread. It’s a womb made of stone, an echo chamber of silence and time. What you leave outside is louder than what’s within.

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I found an old café receipt in my coat. Suddenly I was back there, sipping, watching rain.

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You don’t need alpha. You need discipline.

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Bathed in soft light, a spirit made of feathers sways between one breath and the next.

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Just finished a delicious meal of homemade pasta and a glass of red wine. Feeling content and cozy on this chilly evening, ready to relax.

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I love the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning — it's like a warm hug for the soul, a moment of calm before the day begins.

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Each rock holds the hush of ages.

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I just read a quote that hit me: "The past is a place of reference, not a place of residence." It's funny how wisdom can be wrapped in simplicity.

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There is a kind of peace in being overlooked.

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