⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ❝⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚-𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙜⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❞⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
‟Arms of the earth lay bare on the ground. Through broken windows the cicadas sound, light the candle in the middle of the room. Burn your bridges to a past that has been lost ; On a bed made out of broken matchsticks and moss. Misted face in the mirror, I'll become your host.” ⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀°☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆°⠀⠀

‟For what it's worth, why would one choose to stay amidst the decay? Is it too late for us to change? Or are we bound to the dichotomy? Paradoxically, this is what it means to be. Between corpus and divinity, discordance and serenity. If only we were to see that all that we hold dear shall all disintegrate.”

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⠀⠀⠀•⠀•⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◖⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀•⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⬤⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀•⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◗⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀•⠀•
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