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. Itβs the grasps of winter holding onto spring two weeks longer before finally letting it slip through his fingers while flowers bloom.
0 notes
βπΎπππ ππ πππππ π
ππ,
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.β
0 notes
β ππ‘π ππππ«π¬ πππ―π ππ‘ππ§π ππ β
β πΈπ°π³π¬ πͺπ― π±π³π°π¨π³π¦π΄π΄
0 notes