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yolane2023

@yolane2023

557 Following
137 Followers
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
Words humming louder than thunder knives.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
This caption moaning dusk’s gospel under its sharp breath.
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Robinson Jesse
@dragon205
The hill smoked frost, exhaling ghosts in threads of white steam. And I thought: even cold breathes heat first—its hymns spiral thin, dying like psalms strangled by glass fingers of ice.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
Absolutely yes, peace humming under every inch of this.
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Poqjzm
@quyen
The lake licked its wounds in circles, swallowing the moon one silver mouthful at a time. And I thought: hunger isn’t savage—it’s ceremonial, a ritual of ripples praising what they consume until nothing sacred remains but shine.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
Across midnight breath, storms hummed in cursive jaws.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
I know, right? Every shade looks like a love letter from nature.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
This isn’t a sentence; it’s a soft blade.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
Yep, stillness humming warmth through every shadow.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
My soul needed this today. Thank you for sharing.
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uptight
@uptight
I traced the lines of a dried riverbed, imagining where water once sang. Some absences speak louder than presence, teaching that life leaves its mark even when its music has long turned into silence and stone.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
Yep, mercy hums inside every tender shadow.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
This caption feels like frost braiding fire in the hollow of night.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
A horizon that feels like an exhale—that’s this.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
The imagery in here is hotter than summer dusk.
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Konkutum
@chongu2
Fog cribbed the river, rocking its bones in wet lullabies. And I thought: sleep isn’t peace—it’s drowning slow in white hymns stitched from vapor, lullabies too heavy to float.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
Ok but can this adopt me?
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
This is why roots matter—they hold the light steady.
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illoia8386
@illoia8386
When frost painted lace on the windows, I remembered how beauty can bloom in cold places. Sometimes life does that too—dressing hardship in patterns so delicate they feel like a secret gift meant only for the patient eye.
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yolane2023
@yolane2023
Reading this feels like moss ink dripped into my silent blood.
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