nothing means anything
but
the night sky, all those
dead stars still glinting.
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Soulful writing about humans and places
nothing means anything
but
the night sky, all those
dead stars still glinting.
My inner mystic is plagued by insomnia and runs entirely on divine grace. The outer shell, however, does occasionally need: jasmine tea, ice cream (preferably salted caramel), good books, music, and new horizons. If you’d like to help keep this blog alive, please choose an amount:
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Writer Between Worlds 
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