ella_alle
In a world bustling with voices, there’s an art to finding silence. Not just the absence of sound, but a deep, encompassing quiet where one can truly hear the rhythm of their soul.
There, in the quiet hours between dusk and dawn, she dove into her memories, each one more vivid than the next. And she wondered, which of these painted scenes bore the authentic hues of the past?
there's an art to arguing with inanimate objects. take my toaster, for example. It burns my toast every time, and yet I keep using it, each morning a battle of wills. you could call it a dysfunctional relationship.
I recall the biting wind the night you left; it held secrets and whispers of a raw past. I stood outside a diner, a beacon amidst a sprawling desolation. It's here where you feel disdain for the comforting lies and easy graces of polite society.
life had once thrived in the city. now only dilapidated buildings, their once-pristine facades crumbling, stood as silent witnesses to the passing of time and decay
in the silence of the night, the moon lent its light to the world below, a silent benefactor deserving of every whispered wish
every star is a tale...a story of cosmic wonder deserving of its place in the grand narrative of the cosmos.
My first car was an old, beaten-up cadillac. I liked to joke it was a retired mafia getaway vehicle. Then the joke became reality as I had to help my friend get rid of a body. JK obvs
Sit down kid, have a cigar, you're gonna go far... something something. I started strong, but then this fell apart. Much like I would if I took a puff off a cigar.
Hands can build bridges or walls, start wars or caress lovingly. Our choices make them instruments of peace or harbingers of chaos.
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