caubebuon (toroday)

I’m bad at letting go. Even of small, random things that don’t matter anymore.

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It’s strange how endings often look like beginnings in hindsight.

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Curious eyes and a long neck scanning the horizon.

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At dusk, the desert painted itself in orange and silence A lone jackal stood against that canvas Sometimes solitude looks like confidence

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So small, yet so sure of its place in the world.

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Lightning carved a quicksilver wound across the clouds, illuminating hills crouched under rain. For an instant, the world burned white—and then, darkness stitched itself shut with the needle of thunder.

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The reef exploded with color, fish flashing like stained glass A sea turtle glided past like an ancient monk I forgot how to speak—so I listened instead

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