Splash of water. Clean body. Clean Mind. Clean life. Black gold warms the indifferent heart. Rituals without Warmth. Wanderer between cultures did you ever see a thorn between two Roses. Ecstatic drops of pomegranatejuice seeping from the lips of monks autumn in armenia. Homecoming searching for ourselves in each Other. We see our shadows burned inch by inch into poems. Today is the last day that i'm using words.
"The air is thick with the scent of white roses, that weave through your senses like a delicate white lace; unfolding like a page from a mystical manuscript, illuminated with vibrant colors and enigmatic symbols. The taste of ripe pomegranates lingers on your tongue, sweet yet tangibly bitter, a metaphor for the complexities of creative existence. With every heartbeat, you’re drawn into a dance of poetic visuals, a celebration of life and artistry." - Mark Buxton
Splash of water. Clean body. Clean Mind. Clean life. Black gold warms the indifferent heart. Rituals without Warmth. Wanderer between cultures did you ever see a thorn between two Roses. Ecstatic drops of pomegranatejuice seeping from the lips of monks autumn in armenia. Homecoming searching for ourselves in each Other. We see our shadows burned inch by inch into poems. Today is the last day that i'm using words.
"The air is thick with the scent of white roses, that weave through your senses like a delicate white lace; unfolding like a page from a mystical manuscript, illuminated with vibrant colors and enigmatic symbols. The taste of ripe pomegranates lingers on your tongue, sweet yet tangibly bitter, a metaphor for the complexities of creative existence. With every heartbeat, you’re drawn into a dance of poetic visuals, a celebration of life and artistry." - Mark Buxton