πͺ· Smile. Breathe. Create.π¦βπ₯β
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How far must one migrate? Can you ever run from yourself? Wings gave the swallows nothing but the sorrow of exile. πͺΆπͺΆπͺΆ
A bit of paint, a bit of autumn, a bit of me. Autumn still whispers in orange. π
Sometimes all you need to let goβ is a dandelion and a little wind.
Welcome Autumn π π π