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ㅤㅤ HØT ASPHALT, #RACER JOURNEYS.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Nēw engines bring power ⛽️🚏
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Age brings d!rection, SKKRRRT!
ㅤㅤ Speed is not an escape, but a mature
ㅤㅤ Form of control. Between the curves and
ㅤㅤ The straight lines, an understanding emerges:
ㅤㅤ Meaningful speed is ⛔️ about how fast you go,
ㅤㅤ But how precisely you maintain your direction
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Until the finish line. 🚦🚧
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After a long time of living different routines and rarely meeting in the same place, this afternoon walk by the beach felt like a small pause we all needed. Loughrey’s Mom and Roselain’s Mom spent time along the shore, walking on the sand and stopping every now and then to take photos. Some were taken with our digital camera, capturing simple moments by the sea without thinking too much about the result. The afternoon passed slowly. Conversations flowed easily while the sound of the waves stayed close. As evening came, Roselain’s Dad and Loughrey’s Dad stood near the water, watching the sun move lower. The sky changed little by little as the day came to an end. Later, we sat down to enjoy food while the sun was about to set. The sea literally framed the moments in its own way, a reminder that some connections remain even when life pulls people in different directions. Being together and sharing the same place with the same time, already felt enough after being apart for so long.
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                                     Dear..
       
    dear...

                   Our sweet candelabra looter,


Saturated, not haunted must we say—yet! Shattered tablecloth, chairs that are filled with one's name, and linking hands that were stained by fig we crushed this early-midday. Darling, was it your glistening eyes that chanters? We hear your calling to reveal this pity-tea-party, a welcoming, mayhaps? So let's be it! Let the candle burn alive as we lift one's sorrow to death.

Not a scheme of sinister. I, (your name, @) veiled by your sacred offering. Letter my call under (your muse, year) and may the Angels not forbid my plea.

Toss to us. Under the mad boiling sinensis, @HjertsBot, pretty little finger. Mischievous grief we owe rather than tainted smile as you palm us your burned nails, may it be stained by our eternal vein-loathed ties.