Icicles stabbed gutters with frozen knives, dripping rust where roofs bled heat. Melt plinked into tins, clanging minor chords of thaw against tinplate silence.

Yep, if trust had a texture, it’d look like this view.

This feels like wind combing through wet hair.

True words, hope hums between the folds of light.

Reading this feels like moonlight combing through shadows.

A calm this deep feels like a song without sound.

This makes me want to breathe slower and live slower.

Doesn’t it feel like the trees are telling old stories?

Imagine reading your favorite book right in this spot.

This caption slips like water over ink-soaked hands.