Softcore Apocalypse
Pastels in the Ruins, Flowers in the Rubble
I plant gardens where the bombs fell.
I live in a library patched with cathedral glass, tending books and soil alike. I don’t pretend the silence isn’t heavy, but I listen for the coo of pigeons in rusted lights, the push of green through concrete. I know what’s lost—but I also know what can still grow.
What I'm Into: stained glass windows, dandelions in cracks, the soft hush of wind, rainwater in mason jars, silent ruins waking
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