Happy Turmoil

When the wind calls us to sift between sand and limestone for a purpose, it is trial that guides us through weathered skin and dry eyes. When purpose calls for a kind of love lost in the sea of time, the end bestows it in a chilling embrace. When love calls for change, we are informed only when we are caught in a crossfire.

As seeds, we grow, painfully breaking out of our shells. Its shards pull us apart, shedding histories to make way for new markings. Where wounds clot, stories are kept beneath. Where stories fade, nothing lasts.

When nothing ever lasts nor stays, infinity records.




hallucinating on command.

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hallucinating on command.

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