A sun becomes pale, shifting every shadow into a dark blur. Eyes cannot see clearly anymore, but warmth on a right cheek shows where to go. 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲 happens when hands guide a way forward through this long open road across the town.
Taken through something vintage, like ones deserving its dedicated own wall on a photograph museum. Where the curator would wrote down something like... "Someone's first love: A fairy of heaven's blossoming meadows," or I don't know! I'm not creative enough for that, blep. 👅☀️
I mean, please gear up and go out. Find me in between the century of trees, or you might find me whispering secrets to the flowers and the water, or to the blue sky, and to the clueless future lady me.