We smoke illusions, speaking of mindless musings and endless thoughts. The night becomes ours and we linger in the haze a little longer, believing in something real, a bit of the truth to speak to us as we wait. The air turns white, our breaths staining the cold. Or is it those illusions?
Infinitely
Infinitely yours. Always stay hopeful in uncertainty. & Think *All writing is mine unless stated. No photos are mine unless stated. Another Place
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