Cryptidcore
She's Blurry in Every Photo. She Just Exists. Possibly.
You’ll never find me twice in the same place.
I move with the hush between birdsong and wind. My presence is not a claim, only a possibility. I listen to the things that go unnoticed — the slow curl of lichen, the breath before a rain. I do not offer explanations. I offer presence. Or the suggestion of it.
What I'm Into: moss-lit silence, the edge of fog, things that don't last, forest dreams, listening to what isn't there
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