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Is that Olive I see? γ€°
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petals and shrapnel πŸŒΈπŸ”«πŸ’£

How life would’ve been during the continuance of the siege was unthinkable. Humans were nothing but specimens, infinitesimal particles in an even baronial scheme. Hope and gallantry were short-lived in a world slowly deteriorating; the crevices and margins of their being crumbling alongside the world they live in. People were deprived of volition,  didn’t have any choice but to succumb in dread and vexation. An era of obscurity and irrevocable despair and an exigency in History I’ve strangely been fascinated by. A part of me is constantly ruminating on how it would be like to wander the winding streets of London in 1940 aimlessly. A part of me yearns to feel like a refugee amidst the rubble of bombs and shrapnel; of disintegrated bricks and pulverized concrete
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1660
πŸŒΈπŸ”«
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greyugly:

A large vine spirals in the forest. Part of an ongoing series on intricacy.
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greeneyes55:

Robert Frank, his wife Mary and their daughter Andrea
 New York 1956
Photo: Hermann Landshoff
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carmenalt:

London, October 2013
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