ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
Monthly Keepsake, of @Kheraeld. / As we stand buoyant, traces on the ground where our roots once planted occur.

Underneath the epithet of the vicinity, and the wish that lies on the table that we mail to @myldemoor, @TheOceaniic for the commemorative fetes.

ㅤㅤㅤShall the downpours that have poured and the flake of the sun that have been reaped become the confetti of the significant day. The scent of musk, the lane where the crowds gather—blood by blood, soul by soul, and palms by palms. They unfold altogether, we mouth the prayers, and triumph is all over the chamber. May there be a lantern awaits until the ménage is overfilled with nought yet the sempiternal exultation.

Sincerely, Musing of Recollection.
@Kheraeld, the Genesis of Omen.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
Monthly Keepsake, of @Kheraeld. / As we stand buoyant, traces on the ground where our roots once planted occur.

Underneath the epithet of the vicinity, and the wish that lies on the table that we mail to @TheeRomanovna, @ZhouSeason, and @LeclairFamilie for the commemorative fetes.

ㅤㅤㅤShall the downpours that have poured and the flake of the sun that have been reaped become the confetti of the significant day. The scent of musk, the lane where the crowds gather—blood by blood, soul by soul, and palms by palms. They unfold altogether, we mouth the prayers, and triumph is all over the chamber. May there be a lantern awaits until the ménage is overfilled with nought yet the sempiternal exultation.

Sincerely, Musing of Recollection.
@Kheraeld, the Root of Solace.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
Monthly Keepsake, of @Kheraeld. / As we stand buoyant, traces on the ground where our roots once planted occur.

Underneath the epithet of the vicinity, and the wish that lies on the table that we mail to @KasteelOfDuisterg, @HouseofVermillion, @ValkyriePiece, @RogueLorth, and @EternityOfIgnis, for the commemorative fetes.

ㅤㅤㅤShall the downpours that have poured and the flake of the sun that have been reaped become the confetti of the significant day. The scent of musk, the lane where the crowds gather—blood by blood, soul by soul, and palms by palms. They unfold altogether, we mouth the prayers, and triumph is all over the chamber. May there be a lantern awaits until the ménage is overfilled with nought yet the sempiternal exultation.

Sincerely, Musing of Recollection.
@Kheraeld, the Root of Solace.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ