Which Is Better...

[samurai.]

to be born good or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?

Hi! My name is Sam. Thanks for checking out my form! I'm not a great artist so I tried to do a lot of writing, giving you stories of his past lives and stories of his current life through one of his favorite medias, cooking.

I appreciate the ability to try out, and hope you enjoy reading! Playlist is at the bottom to listen to.

[samurai.]

Cooking Blog by Graham xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Crunchy, Fried Chicken
Vegetable Stew
City Ramen
Shepherds Pie
Competition Chili
Brisket
Apple Crisp

Introduction to Mr. Graham Cracker

Personality
Prompt Response
Life One, Silent Bonds
Life Two, The Space Between
Life Three, Weight of Silence
Current Life, State of Affairs
Extras

[samurai.]

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ᴜ s ᴇ ʀ ɴ ᴀ ᴍ ᴇ
Samurai.

ɴ ᴀ ᴍ ᴇ
Graham Cracker

ɢ ᴇ ɴ ᴅ ᴇ ʀ
Male (Female at Birth)

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𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕

𝙶 𝚁 𝙰 𝙷 𝙰 𝙼▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆

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one.
Graham’s thoughts often wander to deeper, more existential
questions, yet he doesn’t feel the need to force answers. His
introspection is not anxious but rather calm, as he embraces the
unknowns of his life. He allows himself to sit with the fleeting
memories of past lives without feeling pressured to understand
them. He’s more focused on living in the present, finding peace
in the small moments of life.

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two.
Graham’s patience is apparent in both his work and his approach
to life. Whether tending to his garden or preparing a meal, he
finds fulfillment in the process rather than rushing for an outcome.
His connection to the land and his simple routines indicate a
comfort with stillness. He’s not in a hurry to uncover his past or
solve the mysteries of his existence. Instead, he moves through
life with a quiet acceptance, letting things unfold as they will.
Its a skill gained over lives, even if he doesn't fully know it.

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three.
Living alone in a cottage far from the city, Graham is highly
self-sufficient. He finds satisfaction in taking care of himself and
the land around him. His newfound love for cooking is a perfect
example of his ability to create something from scratch and care
for his own needs. This self-reliance also manifests in his
emotional life. He doesn't rely on others to find meaning or
fulfillment—he finds it in his work, the landscape, and the quiet
moments he cultivates for himself.

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four.
Though Graham’s life is solitary and his struggles internal,
there’s a quiet strength in his ability to face each day. The
connection to his past lives and the feelings of loneliness
that accompany them don’t weaken him. Instead, they
make him more grounded, more resilient. His ability to find
peace in the ordinary, in the rain or a simple meal, speaks
to his inner fortitude. He has learned over time that life
doesn’t always need grand answers or connections—it
just needs to be lived. It’s not about avoiding complexity,
but about finding peace amidst it.

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five.
Graham doesn’t broadcast his thoughts or feelings. He’s not one
to share his internal world openly, even with the few people he
might meet in the nearby village. Yet, he is fully present when
interacting with others, offering a quiet attentiveness that
makes people feel seen without overwhelming them with words.
His energy is subtle, and he communicates through his actions—
the care he puts into his work, his generosity in offering a meal,
or the way he listens more than he speaks. Graham’s presence
is the kind that comforts, without fanfare or expectation.

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six.
Despite his solitary nature, Graham exhibits a deep empathy,
particularly for the natural world around him. The way he cares
for his garden, tends to the fire, and prepares meals speaks to
his attunement to the cycles of nature. Though he doesn’t
openly express this empathy to others, it’s there in his every
action—the care he puts into the simplest tasks and the
reverence he shows the natural world.

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[samurai.]

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Tell me about how he perceives the cycle/concept of life and death! Is he more aligned with one of the two, does he stay somewhere in the balanced between?

Graham had come to see life not as a series of isolated events but as a continuous, unbroken cycle, much like the ouroboros—the serpent that devours its own tail. A symbol of eternal renewal, it was a perfect reflection of the way his existence felt. He had lived many lives, seen many faces, and carried the quiet echoes of each one. And yet, despite the ebb and flow of time, there was always the sense that something—some part of him—remained constant, at the heart of it all.

It wasn’t that he remembered everything, or even that he could always recall the specific details of his past selves. The memories were fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle scattered across time, coming together only in fleeting moments. Sometimes, the faces appeared without warning—familiar but not quite belonging to this life. Their voices whispered in his mind as the wind whispered through the trees, but they were never fully tangible. Still, there was something in their presence that was comforting. He was not simply the man he was in this moment; he was the sum of all the lives he had lived before. He had come to realize that the life he was living now, in this small cottage, was just one small part of a far greater, endless cycle.

When he thought of death, it didn’t carry the weight it once did. He no longer saw it as an end, a final curtain falling, but as another turn of the wheel, another shedding of skin. It was like the ouroboros, where life and death are two sides of the same coin—intertwined, inseparable. One could not exist without the other, just as the snake could not complete its eternal cycle without consuming itself. Death, in this sense, was not something to fear; it was simply part of the process, as natural and inevitable as the changing of the seasons.

Every spring, as the earth bloomed with new life, Graham was reminded of the renewal that lay at the heart of existence. He had watched the world around him change, the flowers sprouting from the ground, only to fade and return again in a never-ending loop. The trees shed their leaves, only to regrow them with the warmth of the sun. Life and death danced together in an eternal rhythm, and he felt no more distanced from it than the earth beneath his feet or the stars in the sky.

Graham had learned, through the years, to accept this cyclical nature of existence. There was no need for answers, no pressing desire to solve the riddles of his past. Life was a continuous flow, an unbroken line that could never be fully untangled. His role in it was simple: to live with presence, to tend to the world around him, and to embrace each day as part of the larger cycle. Just as the ouroboros had no beginning and no end, neither did he. He was always becoming, always evolving, always in motion.

And so, there was peace in that understanding. In the quiet of his days, tending the garden, cooking his meals, and reflecting by the fire, Graham had come to accept that life and death were not opposites but companions, eternally bound together. Each one was a part of the other, a part of the same endless dance. The cycle would continue, whether he understood it or not. And for now, that was enough.

[samurai.]

While their peers ran and played, laughing with abandon, Ethan often found himself sitting quietly by the edge of the woods, listening to the wind rustle the leaves, watching the birds flit from branch to branch. He lived in a cozy cottage at the outskirts of town with his parents, both kind-hearted people who made sure Ethan had everything he needed. Still, there was always an undercurrent of longing in Ethan’s heart, something he couldn’t quite name, a feeling of something more just beyond his reach.

Ethan’s solace came in the form of Nash, the family dog. Nash was a large, golden retriever with kind eyes and a quiet demeanor. They had been inseparable from the moment Ethan could remember. While the other children played games and teased one another, Ethan sat in the grassy yard with Nash, talking about the things that only they could understand—things like the gentle sway of the trees, the way the rain smelled after a storm, and the little moments of peace that could be found in the quiet spaces of life.
Every morning, Nash would greet Ethan at the door with a wagging tail, and the two of them would wander into the fields, just the two of them, without a word. There was something magical in these moments—something that made Ethan feel as though Nash could understand him in ways no one else ever could.

As the years passed, Ethan noticed the changes. Nash, once youthful and energetic, began to slow down. The once bright and shiny coat had become dull, and the playful glint in his eyes was replaced with a tired weariness. Ethan didn’t want to admit it, but he knew: Nash was getting old.

One winter morning, as snowflakes danced through the air, Nash lay curled up in his favorite spot by the hearth, breathing slowly, his body weak. Ethan sat beside him, stroking his fur. The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire, but there was a strange understanding in the air. It was the unspoken language of love—deep, pure, and unconditional.

The evening came, and with it, the quiet passing of Nash. It was as though the world had paused for that brief moment, as if the earth itself was mourning the loss of a soul so deeply intertwined with Ethan’s. For the first time in his young life, Ethan truly understood the concept of loss—not just the absence of someone, but the emptiness that remained, the space where love once resided.

Ethan sat in the room long after Nash had passed, staring at the place where the dog had lain. He felt as though a part of him had gone too. He had known that Nash’s time would come, but he hadn’t fully grasped how deeply that absence would cut. The pain wasn’t just the loss of a pet—it was the loss of something that had been constant and pure, a companion who had never asked anything in return but had given so much.

The next day, Ethan went to the edge of the woods, as he often did. It was colder now, the ground hard with frost. He sat beneath an oak tree and stared into the distance, feeling the sharp sting of tears in his eyes. The familiar silence pressed in on him, and for a moment, he felt utterly alone.

[samurai.]

Willow sat in the corner of his cramped apartment, the dim light from his desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The hum of the city outside, distant and steady, was the only sound that filled the silence. He stared at the pages in front of him—notes for his next class, a book that he’d promised himself he’d finish, a list of things to do. The words blurred, becoming meaningless symbols in the quiet of the room.

He had been living here for six months now, far from home, far from everything that had ever felt familiar. When he had first arrived in the city, there had been a spark of excitement. The promise of new beginnings, of escaping the expectations he had left behind. The notion that this city would somehow offer the answers he had been looking for—the purpose, the connection, the direction he could never seem to find. But now, six months later, the weight of this new life was starting to settle on him, and it didn’t feel like a fresh start at all.

There was a gnawing emptiness that lingered just below the surface, like a dull ache that wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t the loneliness of being in a new place, of not having friends, or even the crushing weight of responsibilities. No, it was something deeper. It was a sense of disconnect that seemed to follow him everywhere, no matter how many new things he tried, no matter how many new places he went. The longer he stayed, the more it became clear that this city didn’t have the answers he was hoping for.

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The world outside moved with purpose, people rushing to and fro, engaged in lives that seemed so full of direction. Yet, he felt like he was just passing through. Not living, but existing. And that thought unsettled him more than anything.

He had thought that by leaving his old life behind, he would somehow unlock the key to everything. He’d imagined that if he immersed himself in studies, in new experiences, in the unfamiliar, something would click! That he’d suddenly understand what he was meant to be, who he was meant to become. But nothing ever clicked. Instead, it all felt like a blur; days running into one another, each one indistinguishable from the last, and with each passing week, the uncertainty gnawed at him a little more.

Willow thought about his classes, the subjects he studied, the hours he spent pouring over textbooks and notes. But even that, the very thing that was supposed to offer some kind of clarity, felt hollow. Was this it? Was this what he had come for? To sit in lecture halls and memorize facts that didn’t seem to matter?

Willow had tried to find solace in the small moments of routine, in the things that gave his life structure. A cup of coffee in the morning. A quiet walk to campus. The long hours spent in the library, surrounded by the quiet rustle of pages turning, the scent of old books… It only deepened the sense of isolation he felt. He wasn’t part of the world he was surrounded by. It was as though he was a ghost, moving through his own life without ever fully engaging with it.

He couldn’t help but feel that something was missing. But what? He didn’t know. Everyone around him seemed to have it figured out, or at least appeared to. They had their groups of friends, their social lives, their clear goals. But Willow didn’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t sure what to care about anymore. Every time he thought he was close to understanding something—whether it was about his past, his future, or just about himself—he found the answers slipping away before he could grasp them. There were moments when it all felt like a bad dream, as though he was moving through a fog, searching for something he couldn’t even name.

One afternoon, Willow took a walk to the edge of the city. The noise of traffic and people faded into the background as he wandered through quieter streets. He passed old buildings, small shops with handwritten signs, and alleyways that seemed untouched by time. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but something about the stillness of the place made him feel... less lost.

For a moment, he allowed himself to stop and breathe in the cool air, closing his eyes as the sound of distant footsteps echoed down the street. He thought about the life he had left behind—the place where he had grown up, the people he had known. And he wondered, with a strange sense of detachment, whether any of it had really mattered.

Maybe it was always meant to be this way. Maybe this is all life was... an endless series of moments strung together, each one fleeting and uncertain, without any promise of clarity or purpose.

[samurai.]

Elena sat at her loom, the shuttle moving through the threads with practiced ease. The steady rhythm of her work had always been a comfort to her. It was predictable, safe, and familiar. But today, something felt off. As she passed the shuttle through the threads, the fabric grew ever more uneven, the tension pulling in strange, unexpected ways.

Her mind wandered, as it often did, into the distant corners of her thoughts. She couldn’t help it. The life she lived felt too small, too confined. She had tried to fit into the mold, to fulfill her duties as a daughter, as a worker, as a woman. But there was a growing discomfort, a feeling that there was something more to her life than this.

It started again. A flash, like a sudden jolt through her body. The loom in front of her blurred, and for a moment, Elena was no longer sitting in her cottage. She was standing in a bustling street, surrounded by tall stone buildings. The sound of the crowd filled her ears, people laughing, shouting, haggling over goods. A young woman, perhaps a little older than she was now, stood beside her—her face unfamiliar, but somehow so achingly familiar at the same time. The memory felt raw and visceral, a moment suspended in time.

The memory faded as quickly as it came, and Elena blinked, her hands trembling as they gripped the shuttle. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Flashes, unbidden and unsettling, came and went in the blink of an eye. A life that was not hers. A life that seemed just beyond her reach.

Her fingers fumbled with the thread, and the fabric she was weaving became a tangled mess.

"What’s the matter with you?" her mother’s voice broke through the fog in Elena’s mind. "You’ve been distracted all day."

Elena looked up at her mother, who stood across from her at the loom, her face creased with concern. Elena gave a small, absent smile and tried to steady herself, pushing the strange feeling to the back of her mind.

"I’m fine," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "Just... tired."

Her mother nodded, though Elena could see the worry in her eyes. But the worry was not for her daughter’s well-being. No, it was for something deeper. The way Elena sometimes seemed to drift, to slip away into some unknown place, was troubling. Her mother didn’t understand it, and neither did Elena, but she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Later that evening, as the sun sank behind the horizon and the cottage grew darker, Elena wandered out into the woods behind their home, the cool air pressing against her skin. She often came here when the unease grew too much, when the questions flooded her mind with no answers. The trees were tall and still, casting long shadows across the forest floor. The smell of earth and pine was comforting, grounding, but tonight it did little to ease the feeling that something was wrong.

Another flash. Another memory.

This time, she was in a small room, dimly lit by a single candle. A woman’s voice, harsh and commanding, echoed through her mind. "You’ll never be free, you know. Not in this life. Not ever."

Elena’s heart skipped. The voice had been so familiar, so full of rage. She couldn’t remember the face of the woman, but the weight of the words hung heavy in her chest. The memory felt suffocating, like a cage closing in around her.

The scene dissolved, and Elena gasped for air. Her vision swam as her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank to the ground, her hands clutching the cold earth for stability.

What was happening to her?

She had always felt something missing, something elusive in her life. But these flashes—these memories—they were like fragments of lives she had never lived, yet somehow knew intimately. Faces, voices, places that weren’t her own but felt like pieces of a puzzle she could never complete.

In the silence of the woods, Elena shut her eyes, trying to calm her breathing. The chill of the night air nipped at her skin, but it couldn’t shake the suffocating feeling that clung to her.

Why was this happening? Why could she see these flashes of past lives that weren’t hers to live? What did they mean?

She felt the ground beneath her, cool and solid. It anchored her in this life, this moment. But with each flash, with each moment of clarity, she felt further removed from it. The fabric of her world seemed to unravel, as though something deeper was calling her, something beyond the expectations that had been set for her.

And then, as if a veil lifted, she remembered the streets again. Not the bustling city she had seen earlier, but another. A city of stone and gold, full of merchants and scholars. She was older, confident, walking through a courtyard, surrounded by men in robes. She had been there before, hadn’t she? She had worn a long cloak, her hand resting on the scrolls she carried. The people around her had called her by a different name, but she had known them all. She had been important, had a purpose.

But the memory was fleeting, like water slipping through her fingers. Elena stood, trembling, her thoughts scattered and confused.
What did these memories mean? Why did she feel like she had lived a thousand lives, each one pulling her in different directions, but never leading her to any sort of resolution?

She glanced up at the sky, the stars twinkling like distant beacons. She couldn’t explain it, but in those stars, she saw a reflection of herself—a life not yet lived, a path not yet taken. It was as though the very universe was reminding her that there was more to life than what she had been given, more to her existence than the confines of her village.

But no answers came. Only more questions. Only more flashes of memories—of lives once lived, of faces she once knew.

Elena closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Whatever was happening to her, whatever these memories were, they were beyond her understanding for now. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were guiding her, pulling her toward something she couldn’t yet see.

[samurai.]

The rain had come slowly at first, the sky darkening with thick, pregnant clouds. Then, as though the heavens had finally decided to release their hold, the downpour began. Soft, steady drops pattered against the stone walls of the cottage and the thatched roof, the rhythm a familiar sound that Graham had come to cherish over the past year. It felt like a release, like the earth itself was exhaling, allowing the cool, damp air to seep into the corners of his thoughts.

Outside, the garden was soaked, the earth rich with the scent of fresh rain, a dampness that lingered long after the water had pooled in small rivulets along the ground. Graham stood at the edge of the garden, hands deep in the soil as he worked to plant the last of the spring flowers. His hands were dark with the earth, the calluses built over years of labor a constant reminder of the work that had always grounded him, both literally and figuratively. The work was steady and simple, and in its simplicity, it was comforting.

The cottage, nestled on the edge of the forest, sat in a quiet corner of the countryside, isolated from the bustle of the nearby village. It had been a retreat of sorts when Graham had come to it, an escape from the complexities of the world, from the pull of human connection and the persistent ache of never quite feeling settled. Here, among the trees and open fields, he had found solace. And yet, there were times when the silence of the place felt a little too loud, as though it held memories that did not belong to him—faint, distant echoes of lives he had never lived but somehow knew intimately.

Today was one of those days.

As Graham worked, his hands busy in the soil, his mind wandered. It was as if the rain had drawn him into a deeper state of thought, a kind of meditative quiet where fragments of memories surfaced in between each breath, as subtle as the breeze moving through the trees. He was used to it by now—the flickers of faces, the voices that sounded like whispers, the odd sensations of recognition that passed through him as quickly as they came. There was a woman’s face that had appeared to him earlier, a memory that was too elusive to grasp but too familiar to ignore. The only thing he truly knew about her - the name Elena.

She had dark, soft eyes, full of an emotion Graham could not name. There was something about her that felt... right. Not right in the sense of this life, but right in a way that reached far beyond the boundaries of time. He didn’t know who she was, but the feeling of her presence lingered in his mind, like a song half-remembered from a dream. There was a quiet ache in his chest when he thought about her, as if a part of him had known her once, perhaps long ago.

But he couldn’t place her. He shook his head, refocusing his attention on the earth beneath his hands. These things had always come and gone. Fleeting memories, faces, feelings—there was no point in dwelling on them.

The rain fell steadily, tapping against the cottage windows, and as the light began to fade, Graham wiped his hands on his trousers and turned to go inside. The smell of wet stone and earth filled the air, and for a moment, it felt like the land itself was alive, holding onto something he couldn’t quite understand.

Inside, the warmth of the fire greeted him as he crossed the threshold. The hearth crackled, the flames casting soft shadows on the stone walls. The room was small and simple, furnished with hand-carved wooden furniture, the walls lined with books and a few modest mementos from his past. It wasn’t much, but it was home. The fire’s warmth seeped into his bones, and he sighed, pulling the heavy woolen blanket from the back of the chair and wrapping it around his shoulders.

For the first time in his life, Graham had taken up cooking. It had started as an experiment, a way to pass the time during the long winter months when the weather kept him indoors. He’d started with simple stews and rustic bread, and over the course of months, his repertoire had grown. The kitchen in the cottage was small, the counter cluttered with bowls, dried herbs, and a few hand-thrown pottery dishes he’d acquired from a nearby village potter. But in that small space, he had found a new rhythm. Cooking brought him a quiet satisfaction, a focus that allowed him to be present in the moment in a way that nothing else did.

Tonight, a hearty stew simmered on the stove, rich with carrots, potatoes, and a touch of rosemary. The scent filled the room, mingling with the earthy fragrance from outside, and Graham found himself smiling, a rare but warm expression that came easily when he was surrounded by the simple pleasures of his life. He added a final pinch of salt, stirring it slowly, and let the steam rise, fogging up the small window in the kitchen.

Cooking had become something more than nourishment—it had become a form of meditation, a way for Graham to center himself in a life that, while peaceful, often left him wondering about the unseen threads that connected him to something far beyond the land he now tended.

As the stew finished, Graham dished it into a wooden bowl and carried it to the small table by the fire. The warmth of the meal was comforting, grounding him further into the rhythm of the evening. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, while outside the rain continued its quiet dance against the windowpanes.

The evening passed in a familiar, comfortable pattern. The fire crackled. The rain fell. Graham let his thoughts drift, the echoes of past lives once again brushing against the edges of his mind. The woman’s face lingered there, just out of reach, but for now, he allowed it to stay in the background, as he focused on the present moment.

A leather bound journal, one of the nice "moleskin" ones from the city, rested on the table. If one were to rummage through it's contents, it would find names and stories. Blurry charcoal sketches, detailed enough to depict a scene; yet features so hurried it was difficult to ascertain who the figures inside them were.

To anyone else, these were just "little doodles". To Graham, they were reminders of his past lives.

Life and death did not matter to Graham anymore. To him, it was like the ouroboros - a continuous circle of rebirth. A snake eating its own tail; to those who were ignorant, it seemed like cutting one's face off to spite their own nose. Instead, it meant unity. A seamless flow from one life to the next. Something that never disappears, but grows as it moves from one life to another. An enternal cycle of destruction and redemption.

Graham wanted to know his past lives, understand what they endured; know them on a deeper level. Perhaps doing so could help him in the next.

His eyes wandered to the window, towards the darkened hills beyond the miles and miles beyond the meadows and forests. The wilderness where he had often found himself drawn, a place that felt so familiar despite the fact that he had never been there before. There was no urgency to go there tonight, no immediate need to unravel the mystery. It was enough just to know it was there, that pull within him, like a quiet whisper he could always hear if he listened closely enough.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he would walk there, letting the earth beneath his feet guide him. But for now, he would let the quiet evening embrace him. The fire, the rain, and the simple joy of a warm meal were enough.

The rest could wait.

Graham stood, washing his bowl in the small sink, the rhythmic sound of water filling the air. As he dried his hands on the towel, he caught a flash of something—a moment of recognition so brief he almost missed it. A glimpse of the woman again. But this time, it wasn’t just her face. It was the warmth of her presence, the sense of home that had always been there, beneath the surface.
It was a fleeting moment, one that slipped away before he could fully understand it. But Graham didn’t mind. He didn’t need to figure it all out right now.

He turned back to the fire, the warmth curling around him like an old friend. Outside, the hills stood silent and still, and Graham allowed himself a quiet breath, content in the simplicity of this life.

For now, that was enough.

[samurai.]

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ｌ ｉ ｋ ｅ ｓ

Thunderstorms
Cottagecore
Cooking
Forests
Spider Lilies
Ball Pythons
Gold
Environmental science


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ｐ ｌ ａ ｙ ｌ ｉ ｓ ｔ

Haunt You - Social House
10/10 - Rex Orange County
Forever & Always - Zeph
Saw You In A Dream - Japanese House
Dreams Tonite - Always
Runaway Man - Olivia Wilhite
Please Please Please - Sabrina Carpenter
Bring Me to Life - Evanescence
Heaven Falls - Surfaces

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ｄ ｉ ｓ ｌ ｉ ｋ ｅ ｓ

Horses
Thanksgiving stuffing
Old architecture
Large cities
Cold shoulders
Passive aggressiveness
Beaches
Electronic Dance Music


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Made in Canva using Canva Stock Images

[samurai.]

Please see the next page for Graham's cookbook!