Winter touches us in ways that hands never could.

The little grains of sand that fill our hourglass each have universes of their own.

“Some creatures never grow lungs; they breathe through their skin.” — Wysteria

Swiped from @sin.xline

A thousand butterflies swarm the blooming lavender. The swish of wings little more than a hush of silence. Flitting to and fro supping from the waning nectar and Gleefully bounding away in to the sunset to Find a perch whereupon to spend the coming night.

A magnificently honest rendering of low self esteem.

Some memories never fade, only get lost in the well of time.

The road to hell ain't nothin' compared to the road for a flight delayed.

“Letters are the most intimate form of travel.”