Telegram channel "Abditory." — @bcaby

Albeit I am talking about an ancient library where every ornament slowly gets old, I sincerely hope our story will stay young. Like the moonlight at midnight, as young as sun in the morning. Do not put the quill down, let's create more. The more mesmerizing ones, the ones that would delightfully attach on our positive box of mind.

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Abditory.

5 Apr 2021, 00:38

The paintbrush could not depict how precious you are, words could not convey how important you are, and even numbers lost count at how I keep yearning for your calming touches, warm hugs, along with its delicate kisses. How your single phrase can shut the chaotic mayhem inside my head.

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Abditory.

5 Apr 2021, 00:35

The room would be bitterly empty without you. Without your alluring presence or without your beam that became the muse of the arts. You are the words to my poem, the ink to my paper, the flowing water in the deserted surface of mine. For you sooth each disaster within me, and we make an enchanting story. Wholesome. Never have I thought of dwelling in a tale.

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Abditory.

5 Apr 2021, 00:27

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In an old library and ancient craft engraved upon the walls, our story is written within an ancient-made journal. The paper is exquisitely poured by black quill, brushed every single sentence beautifully. About the journey of us, the struggles and the fondness. Dimness and brightness. About us who have went through thick and thin, jumping through ups and downs.

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