Tumgik
tshcwip Β· 4 years
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Beachwood is quiet. Not the cozy quiet everyone initially thinks, but the deafening silence of a town gone mad, plagued with disaster and sickness yet still alive and breathing. The mindless living that only accompanies an event too unnatural, too vile to handle. It’s the grasps of winter holding onto spring two weeks longer before finally letting it slip through his fingers while flowers bloom.
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tshcwip Β· 4 years
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β€œπ‘Ύπ’‰π’†π’ 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 π’…π’Šπ’†,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.”
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tshcwip Β· 4 years
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β˜† π“π‘πž π’π­πšπ«π¬ π‡πšπ―πž π‚π‘πšπ§π πžπ β˜†
━ 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 π˜ͺ𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴
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