Wind blows through soft rushes surrounding isolated bare trees at the lakeside of Llyn Gwynant, a shallow glacial lake in the wide valley of Nant Gwynant in the heart of Eryri, Wales. The trees seemed about the same age, same size, even same type, one and the same. They’ve lived together, witnessed history together, breathed together, but have never actually touched. I see it as a sort of tragedy, a sadness at least, that sometimes those we should have the most connection with, somehow can’t connect at all.
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