alouiré

                      Somewhere in Italy. It's like echoes floating on a river, remnants of something once tangible now lost in the current. The world seems faded, as if someone's drained its vibrancy, leaving only a shell. Nights are the toughest. The bed feels vast and cold, a stark reminder of their absence. Memories become haunting shadows—every shared moment now tainted by loss, as sharp and unforgiving as shattered glass. Shall we getting a little nigher? A business relations between us, solely on writing service and profile-related needs. Hear those crestfallent secret through @Morthinebot.