The smell of burnt herbage is what reminds the spirits which passage there is to overcome, when a slight raindrop reaches the ground and splits the soil to a gap of bursting flames. Four wings that alter the worlds of decline and composition with every flap within a cicling trial. What begins with a distant whisper becomes a bumptious disorder to eradicate the common relations. A cycle breaks once more and leaves behind an endless chaos and a relict for recreational purpose.
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