No grass, no soil, yet everywhere the wattle clustered recklessly, everywhere trees recited the lyrics gifted by the movement of the uncountable particles of the atmosphere. They sang their songs, though there were no considerations given to whether anyone could hear them. Everything pushed against itself, as though the only way to prevent the world from tearing itself apart was a universal violence in the very fabric of reality.
Lovely 💛✍
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Thank you!
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It’s a pleasure
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Reckless beauty! Brought to us by the Creator who can “waste” it, since He has an endless supply. What a beautiful picture of creative abandonment. ❤
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