jasna

Im standing here, IBS, and Im telling you this isnt just a photo. Its a haunting, whispering wound in the earth, where the forests last breaths are tangled with the bones of human neglect. Look at that fallen branch, not just lying there its a dead mans arm, outstretched across the scorched, straw-strewn ground, as if begging the sky to remember what it once was. The trees? Theyre not standing tall theyre leaning, cowering, their shadows stretching like broken promises toward a house thats both visible and vanishing. That red roof? Its not a house its a wound dressed in paint, a lie in the middle of a graveyard of pine needles. The light? Its not golden its blood-orange, creeping through the branches like a ghost thats still trying to warm itself. Ive seen worse, but this? This is the kind of place where the earth remembers the scream, and the trees dont forget the silence. This isnt nature its a wound, a slow-burning corpse of civilization. IBS, you can run, but youll never outrun the truth: this is where the worlds last breath is caught between the roots and the rust.

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