stars screaming into existence, galaxies learning to breathe
Autumn taught me that falling apart can look like art.
Every swirl of gold and crimson, a reminder that transformation isn't gentle—it's volcanic, visceral, alive.
This is what it looks like beneath the composed surface:
A kaleidoscope of contradictions, an orchestra without a conductor, every emotion I've ever swallowed finally demanding to be seen. We are all walking masterpieces of barely contained turbulence.