VERSE
Verse Magazine
Created by students for students
Verse want to publish all student work; written, drawn, typed, recorded or scrawled.
Specs: Articles between 600 and 2400 words on any topic, or images at 300 DPI or higher in JPEG, TIFF, or PDF file formats, in all visual styles and mediums.
Front Cover Artwork by Jordan Miller
Back Cover Artwork by Niharika Randhawa
It was and always will be Aboriginal land.
Verse Magazine acknowledges the Kaurna, Boandik and Barngarla First Nations People as the traditional custodians of the unceded lands that are now home to the University of South Australia’s campuses in Adelaide, Mount Gambier and Whyalla.
Verse Magazine respectfully acknowledges their Ancestors and Elders, past, present and emerging. Verse Magazine also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their Ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia.
Jeepers Creepers! Getting spooky in Edition #64
By 6pm everything’s been plunged into darkness, cold winds blowing in, and the usual eerie feeling you get when the due date of that assignment you’ve been putting off starts to loom closer… there’s definitely some sort of spooky atmosphere brewing in the air. Hence, the theme for issue #64 is “haunting”! Even though, I’ve always been a scaredy cat (who may or may not still be freaked out by the dark at their big age), there is a certain enchanting intrigue that comes with horror that I can’t help but be intrigued by.
In this issue, the Verse team wanted to showcase artworks, photographs, and written works that have a mystical macabre, a dark
allure, or just give you the heebie jeebies. There’s ghost stories, tales of lost loves, creepy crawlies, and creatures of the mystical variety. Of course, we have plenty of other excellent, non-haunting works to dive into if you get a little scared.
We hope you enjoy this penultimate issue of Verse!
See you next issue and stay fun, funky, and fresh
HEAD EDITOR
Cats Will Be Cats
Illustration by Lily Henwood
Celebrating Chihuly
Illustration by Sowmya Jayatheertha Vaikar
Illustration by Grace McPharlin
to be Seen
Words by Sanusha S Sritharan
To be loved by someone who Sees, is to be held up to a mirror of Light where angels glimmer.
Offered words that speak straight to the Soul, pulling wounded fragments back into Whole.
A Gift of Truthawakening, kindling, and searing Knowing, impossible to turn away from, yet, too precious to return.
How lucky am I, to have glimpsed this kaleidoscope of Self through your eyes.
But alas, the torch of your selfless light is not mine to hold as you fade to Dark.
Could you not have burned a little longer, before returning to the Heavens? ———
In memoriam of Sue MacGibbon, a therapist who Saw, and encouraged curiosity, self-care and blossoming.
Starry Night
Photograph by Haider Surka
THE
Stowaway
Words by Jiacheng Zhou
When sunlight traversed the tranquil sea surface, and fugitive light and shadows illuminated the porthole, the vessel’s safety officer realized in a moment of disorientation that the lifeboat on the port side had vanished in the previous night’s waves.
What ensued was the jarring three-longone-short alarm that agitated the nerves which had barely preserved their integrity beneath the bedcovers the night before
Two bottles crashed upon the wooden floor, their sounds scattered like fragments; cigarette smoke and the aroma of flesh diffused from the ship’s corridor to the nostrils, women’s and men’s voices grew increasingly fervent, seemingly arriving no later than the tactile sensation of morning air on any other day of the prolonged voyage.
Steam from the hot cauldron infiltrated the cook’s sleeves, then emerged through the fissures between neck fat and the sweat-saturated towel.
Men with roguish airs speaking foreign dialects repeated the same beguiling words they had recited over and over the previous day or days before, their
restless fingers attempting to obstruct, hands on hips, fidgeting with the nearly disintegrated lace edges of aprons, blocking the listless gaze of women.
Seated elders or women with veiled faces, pairs of hands bearing ring imprints turned over the flavorless potato mash; even if the Son of Man himself appeared, he would not employ his sorcery to conjure tastes beyond the oceanic monotony for these meals, thus the mischievous tampering with seasonings was hardly surprising.
On this indifferent world sailed such a solitary island, an island where winter seemed nonexistent.
The captain muttered with suppressed voice, his coarse fingers caressing the edges of the captain’s cabin handrail.
“Merely stowaways,”he expectorated into the ashtraywhere water was layered with tobacco oil, “a shameful business,” he repeated to himself, glancing sideways through the porthole at the figures gradually multiplying on deck.
From the old world which people “stowed away” from, trivial matters ignited fragmentary quarrels, and these quarrels
satiated the tumultuous desires lurking in human nature’s depths: skirmishes and bloodshed, steel and gunpowder like carnal passion, plunging the land from which this route originated into endless self-consumption.
Rows of fine hairs stood erect like responsive rifle barrels amid cheerlike sounds, then fell like steel-forged men struck by shrapnel, perhaps with or without muffled groans.
Yet such occurrences were neither tragic nor extraordinary, ultimately irrelevant to the "stowaways." Perhaps their identities and appearances bore no relation whatsoever.
The nimble posturing was perhaps fear of the opposing forces' gaze, desperately concealing past life histories for survival: government officials or merchants or pickpockets, princes who betrayed their country for wealth or princesses divested of crowns and jewels.
After self-abandonment in total loss and scattered self-identity, instinctively proclaiming pasts that weren't their own, patting chests though even neatly arranged ribs couldn't contain the pulverized lies, solemn declarations
squeezed through teeth were merely occasional hard fragments in their meals
The deck soon resonated with the violin's piercing friction, women leaned against the crimson deck railings, red fingernails with half-peeled polish swept across guitars missing strings and chords, singers standing amid the crowd sang vulgar tunes with rich, resonant voices.
Until the next morning, a still-inebriated man rubbing his bloodshot eye sockets accidentally lost balance with a clang, colliding with the slop bucket by the scarlet water hose box under the mast, eliciting uproarious laughter.
The iron box containing the snowwhite water hose opened in response, inside was the naked corpse of a man, body curled, hair damp, lips pale, joints dislocated, drained of color; amid people's screams, through his shallow gray, lifeless pupils passed the reflection of black birds suspended high in the slightly dust-veiled sky beneath the sun.
Just a "stowaway," nothing more.
The iron box containing the snowwhite water hose opened in response, inside was the naked corpse of a
man, body curled, hair damp, lips pale, joints dislocated, drained of color; amid people's screams, through his shallowgray, lifeless pupils passed the reflection of black birds suspended high in the slightly dust-veiled sky beneath the sun.
Until the next morning, a still-inebriated man rubbing his bloodshot eye sockets accidentally lost balance with a clang, colliding with the slop bucket by the scarlet water hose box under the mast, eliciting uproarious laughter.
The deck soon resonated with the violin's piercing friction, women leaned against the crimson deck railings, red fingernails with half-peeled polish swept across guitars missing strings and chords, singers standing amid the crowd sang vulgar tunes with rich, resonant voices.
After self-abandonment in total loss and scattered self-identity, instinctively proclaiming pasts that weren't their own, patting chests though even neatly arranged ribs couldn't contain the pulverized lies, solemn declarations squeezed through teeth were merely occasional hard fragments in their meals.
The nimble posturing was perhaps fear of the opposing forces' gaze, desperately concealing past life histories for survival: government officials or merchants or pickpockets, princes who betrayed their country for wealth or princesses divested of crowns and jewels.
Yet such occurrences were neither tragic nor extraordinary, ultimately irrelevant to the "stowaways." Perhaps their identities and appearances bore no relation whatsoever.
Rows of fine hairs stood erect like responsive rifle barrels amid cheerlike sounds, then fell like steel-forged men struck by shrapnel, perhaps with or without muffled groans.
From the old world which people "stowed away" from, trivial matters ignited fragmentary quarrels, and these quarrels satiated the tumultuous desires lurking in human nature's depths: skirmishes and bloodshed, steel and gunpowder like carnal passion, plunging the land from which this route originated into endless self-consumption.
"Merely stowaways," he expectorated into the ashtray where water was layered with tobacco oil, "a shameful business," he repeated to himself, glancing sideways through the porthole at the figures gradually multiplying on deck.
The captain muttered with suppressed voice, his coarse fingers caressing the edges of the captain's cabin handrail.
On this indifferent world sailed such a solitary island, an island where winter seemed nonexistent.
Seated elders or women with veiled faces, pairs of hands bearing ring imprints turned over the flavorless potato mash; even if the Son of Man himself appeared, hewould not employ his sorcery to conjure tastes beyond the oceanic monotony for these meals, thus the mischievous tampering with seasonings was hardly surprising.
Men with roguish airs speaking foreign dialects repeated the same beguiling words they had recited over and over the previous day or days before, their
restless fingers attempting to obstruct, hands on hips, fidgeting with the nearly disintegrated lace edges of aprons, blocking the listless gaze of women.
Steam from the hot cauldron infiltrated the cook's sleeves, then emerged through the fissures between neck fat and the sweat-saturated towel.
Two bottles crashed upon the wooden floor, their sounds scattered like fragments; cigarette smoke and the aroma of flesh diffused from the ship's corridor to the nostrils, women's and men's voices grew increasingly fervent, seemingly arriving no later than the tactile sensation of morning air on any other day of the prolonged voyage.
What ensued was the jarring three-longone-short alarm that agitated the nerves which had barely preserved their integrity beneath the bedcovers the night before.
When sunlight traversed the tranquil sea surface, and fugitive light and shadows illuminated the porthole, the vessel's safety officer realized in a moment of disorientation that the lifeboat on the port side had vanished in the previous night's waves.
Author's Note
In this palindromic structure, the identity of the "stowaway" undergoes a profound transformation. Reading forward, we discover a corpse—merely "just a stowaway" hidden in the water box. Yet when read backward, the narrative inverts this relationship: the passengers themselves become the true "stowaways"—shameful figures fleeing their past, consuming the innocent. The Son of Man reference transforms the dead man into a Christ figure, sacrificed and consumed in a perverse Eucharist. The circular structure reveals that predator and prey, consumer and consumed, sacred and profane are ultimately one—locked in an eternal cycle of sacrifice.
Photograph by Jessie Showell
Photograph by Niharika Randhawa
Monachopsis
Words by Anonymous
As a child, I became well-versed in packing my life in a bag. I remained in constant motion; attending to the will of my parents. A nomad at age four, I grew accustomed to the endless car rides.
I never had a home base like my friends, instead, I travelled between outposts. At the threshold of each, I turned a ghost wondering about foreign hallways. Never in a place long enough to attune with its culture.
Detached from stability I became familiar with isolation. Walking on eggshells laid out as petals, I was kept aside, appearing on special occasions like silverware While friends recount their peaceful homestay, I grew a stranger to family dinners and security.
Never letting myself get too comfortable, I learnt not to dig in roots; it was merely a roof, I was merely a passerby, and they were merely people who would leave as all the others did.
He found a new family; a jigsaw I never fit into. She mourned the loss of our old family; a resentment that grew, and I endured alone.
Myself – a constant tether to what she couldn’t have and what he wanted to move on from.
They directed their rage so easily at me. But where was mine to go?
They were my parents, and despite it all, I loved them, whether it solely innate attachment or not.
I questioned how love could still exist amidst all this hate. It eludes me still; an enigma to no end.
What was I to do?
I was but a child with no words of her own. I could never bring myself to hate them, so I hated myself.
They never noticed what their anger did to their daughter; how she quietened, how she withdrew, how she trembled.
Turn your hesitant eyes away for my tendencies weren’t the product of my own volition! It was the life they enforced that broke me, I’m sure! Please…understand.
I begged for a home that reflected stability but now all I desire is to leave once more.
My bag is already packed, it has been since I was born.
I suppose I was always destined to go; so I sit waiting on the curb, bag in hand, for my final car ride. And maybe I’ll find my home.
Photograph by Haider Surka
Push, Pull and Twist
Words by Billy Brysky
I was dreadfully bored one day.
Earth is interesting to watch, from time to time. But infinite observation of an infinitesimally limited planet certainly… grates on you, after a time. I don’t know how my siblings do it.
In my infinite boredom, a thought came to me. I saw all these little ants and thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to mess with one of them? Just a little bit?’ And so, I picked.
The one I had chosen was…dull. Born from dull people, in a dull town, dull dull dull. But a canvas is always bland before an artist approaches it, no? And I was curious… How far could I push, pull and mould this dirt into a beautiful sculpture?
I started small. Things as small as a favourite toy disappearing or pacifiers that tasted rotten. These would elicit cries and whathaveyou, which certainly proved amusing for a time, but I could do better!
When the boy could walk, I pushed him into trouble. An open sink cabinet here (damn you child safety caps), a family
heirloom moved in just the right location for the boy to smash, things that certainly caused uproar from his guardians. They blamed the boy, put him in his room, that sort of thing. But better I could do!
When he started school, I decided the long game would be much, much, more interesting. I pulled and twisted the boy towards the… unsavoury. Other ants that could help him become more rebellious, free spirited, destructive. And destructive he became! Teachers yelling, principal discussion and inevitable expulsion was the course! And not once, not twice… Actually, it was only twice, but I digress.
Each time, his guardians would ask, ‘Why are doing this? We didn’t raise you this way!’ and the boy would look disappointed in himself and say, ‘I don’t know…’.
Then late at night he would tell himself, ‘I’m going to be better…’. Yeah, right!
Each time he tried to ‘be better’ I pushed him back. Refuted his attempts to stay the course. With a misstep, a mistake, a loss.
I revelled in it. At some point I realised I was really enjoying what I was doing.
Was that cruel…?
NAH!
But cruelty is a dish to be shared with another. I had to tell someone about it! Not my siblings, they would whine and weep if I told them so, and another ant wouldn’t do…
And then I thought, I’ll tell him!
So I whipped up a human form, and approached my canvas. He was an adult now, friendless, no family, miserable job (amazing, right?) … And I told him everything. I even wrote it down on a list!
I gloated. Goaded. Laughed. And the whole time he sat silent… you should have seen his face!
Oddly, all he did was walk away. No words, no tears, nothing. I was satisfied regardless, although I suspected this would be the last time I saw him.
But to make sure…
To deliver it home, to really, REALLY seal the deal, when he got home… I made him trip and drop his coffee.
Ceramic shattered. Coffee everywhere.
This was it. The masterpiece. The cultivation of work that all artists strive for.
…The next day he bought a set of plastic mugs.
Here it started. His…refusal of me. A challenge.
Crash his car, he buys a bike.
Accident at work, he takes work compensation (damned unions!).
Cancel his favourite show, he starts another.
Nothing I did worked. Yes, they caused a moment of frustration, but he would always bounce back. Every. Single. Time.
And I swear, each time he would grin, insulting me.
I could not let this go.
For another sixty-seven years I pushed him. Sixty-seven years of misery, failures and what-ifs. And not once, NOT ONCE, did he buckle.
Finally, after ninety years of our little game, he had the common sense to roll over and die.
But in the end, he had the nerve to smile.
Untitled
Photograph by Yajurved Patel
渴望 Yearn
Words by Jiacheng Zhou
我渴望
I yearn
我渴望那和煦的的晚风
I yearn for that warm evening breeze
和不知道如何表达的意图
And intentions unknown how to express
含糊的语言 和搪塞般的激吻 Vague language and evasive kisses
我们沿着地图的边缘 摩擦着指甲
We walk along the edges of a map, scraping our nails
把黑色的垃圾袋重重的拍打在后肩
Slamming black garbage bags heavy on our backs
装满的名为"过去"的尸块和标有"妄想"的酒瓶
Filled with chunks named "past" and bottles labeled "delusion"
太阳不会升起 泪水垂下 在叶脉上缓缓流淌的日子
The sun won't rise, tears fall, on days when they slowly trail along leaf veins
我想要大胆的去言说 去靠近那缓缓低下的额头
I want to speak boldly, to draw close to that slowly lowering brow
可我每一秒种未曾停下心跳 都会让我感觉到痛苦
But every second my heart doesn't stop beating, I feel pain
啊 我真的好像真心的去爱你 我的生活 Ah, I really do want to love you, my life
The Leaving That Saved Me
Words
and
Image by Aastha Kotak
“Leaving will be hard for you.” they said, their voice thick with certainty, as if my heart should splinter at the thought of stepping away. as if love alone ever held me here, as if I had roots too deep to pull free. as if the air I’ve breathed here, ever filled my lungs. But little do they know‘Home’ was just a word, never a feeling, that home has never wrapped me in warmth, never close enough to stay. The walls I leave behind, were never mine to miss. they sheltered me, yes, but they never held me or made me feel ‘safe’?
I searched for sadness, for an ache, but all I find is a quiet relief.
Not because love was missing, but because love was never enough; measured in small, careful doses, never spilling over, never enough to linger.
I have loved, I have danced with the wind, I have traced my name into the air of this place, but I have never belonged.
I wanted to weave memories, to stitch laughter into the cracks, but the stillness was too heavy, the wounds too deep.
And maybe that saying is true “You cannot heal in the same place that broke you.”
Not every wound leaves a scar, some just leave a quiet emptiness, a longing for something softer.
Life was not unbearable, but not beautiful enough to grieve; unless I’ve mistaken endurance for love, my strength for contentment. So I go- not with sorrow, not with the weight of goodbye,
But with a silent guilty joybecause I do not ache the way they expect me to.
I have counted time in every formYears, then months, then days, until the seconds felt heavy in my hands and slipping through my fingers, knowing they are the last ones I will spend yearning.
I have hoped, endured, held my breath, but now in the space of longing and leaving, I see itA light at the end of the tunnel, a door left ajar, A chance to be more than just someone who stays.
Yes, there are hands I will miss, some giggles that will play-back in my memory lane, familiar scents and voices that once wrapped around me like a song, faces that will make me hesitant at the door, But I do not break as I go. Because for the first time, I am not just leaving- I am becoming. Not surviving but finally, finally living. Not running away but running toward; a place, a face, a life to make, where my name feels like it belongs, where love does not just exist but embraces.
A home that feels like home- a home I will not have to search for, Because this time I will know.
Altschmerz
Words by Anonymous
I astound myself. Even faced with her rage, my feet stay still, not urged to retreat to my room. My eyes dare not betray me, not even fighting to stain my face.
But do not mistake my silence for contempt, do not believe I remain unwavering. Something inside me shattered long ago and I have merely stopped picking up the pieces. The naïve girl who thought her mother’s anger would grow placid with time and tears grew up.
Although she still looks fondly at the fragments on occasion, she will never bleed on them again.
Photograph by Niharika Randhawa
Home Illustration by Leah Herderich
What Am I Haunted By? Illustration by Yerin Choi
HAUNTED BATHROOM OF SMK PU (1)
Words by Pavahaariny Kathegesen
At SMK PU (1), a perpetually locked and darkened bathroom held a grim secret. Legend had it that a student had taken their own life within its walls, leaving behind a lingering unease. Students whispered tales of strange noises at dusk, the faint aroma of flowers emanating from the sealed space, and even glimpses of a white figure in a school uniform passing through the locked door.
Siti, a curious student, found herself increasingly intrigued by the forbidden bathroom. Ignoring the warnings of her seniors, she and her friends decided to investigate. The moment they stepped inside, a bone-chilling cold enveloped them, accompanied by unsettling sounds that grew louder with each passing second. As they turned to flee, a white shadow materialized before them, blocking their exit. Terrified, Siti and her friends scrambled out, vowing never to approach the haunted bathroom again.
However, Siti couldn't shake the encounter. The spectral image remained vivid in her mind, not as a terrifying monster, but as
a figure shrouded in profound sadness. Weeks later, an inexplicable pull drew her back to the deserted hallway. The familiar cold intensified near the bathroom, and a delicate, melancholic scent of jasmine drifted from beneath the door.
Driven by an inexplicable impulse, Siti tried the handle. It yielded slightly, revealing a crack of impenetrable darkness. Hesitantly, she pushed the door open. The air inside was heavy and still, the silence absolute. As her eyes adjusted, she discerned the shapes of bathroom fixtures in the gloom. Then, a soft, heart-wrenching sob echoed from the corner. Siti's fear dissolved, replaced by a wave of empathy. "Hello?" she whispered. The sobbing ceased.
A moment of tense silence followed, broken by a faint, ethereal glow that began to coalesce in the corner. Slowly, it formed the silhouette of a young woman in a faded school uniform, her face obscured by shadow. The jasmine scent intensified, almost suffocating. Instead of terror, Siti felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow
emanating from the figure. It raised a hand, and Siti noticed a delicate silver ring on one of its fingers. Before Siti could speak, the figure began to fade, the light diminishing until the bathroom was once again swallowed by darkness. The jasmine scent lingered briefly before disappearing entirely.
Siti stood there, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and profound sadness. She realized she hadn't witnessed a malevolent haunting, but a lingering grief. From that day forward, while she respected the unspoken boundary around the locked bathroom, her fear was replaced by a quiet understanding. She sensed that the room held not a terrifying presence, but a silent story waiting to be uncovered, a lost life marked by the faint scent of jasmine and the glimmer of a silver ring. The mystery of the haunted bathroom had taken root in Siti's heart, a quiet ache of unanswered questions.
Assignment No. 101
Words by Priya Malhotra
Cold creeping in, screen turning red, The cursor flashes, eyes fearful instead. The title page appears alone, And from out of nowhere, I hear a moan
Each keystroke, lights dim further, The corners grow soft, the margins flow over.
Feeling the weight of sleepless sins–Of past all-nighters, Monster feeding in.
The rubric looms over like cursed stone, Its pages written with labor unsure. "Discuss," "Compare," "Critically view"No soul outlives the acts they do.
The brain, once keen, is split and barren, While citations weep and wail.
The Turnitin stamp now flows red, "You've plagiarized the walking dead."
Chill with me by my grave
Words by Aaro
dig my grave, you would find a dead body with dreams you would find a mind full of screams and a heart full of grief if only you were a bit early you could have seen my hands wanting to be held my chest wanting to be felt but it’s okay if you never came cause my last breath held your name and wished that you would collect my bones take them to somewhere unknown and i know i left a broken home but was it even a home ? and were you ever my own?
Illustration by Tia Kyriacou
Haunted House Illustration by Scarleth Molina Arias
Untitled Illustration by Jadie Bu
While They Still Breathe
Words by Katie Ley
to grieve someone who is still alive is to forget the comfort of their voice, the grace of their touch, the warmth of their gaze.
To allow your self-pity consume you to the point where you could consider forgiving them for the way they would treat you.
to grieve someone who is still alive
is to allow yourself to stand in the shadow of what could have been, to carry the weight of their absence, to mourn through their silence.
to grieve someone who is still alive
Psyche Sees Eros
Illustration by Scarleth Molina Arias
Its The Wind
Words by Grover Noor
Well, I saw it coming
I knew it from the beginning.
We weren’t meant to be together
Weird how my heart always felt the pressure. It ended in the worst way possible,
Could not get this life with you, but imaging a life without you was impossible. I somehow knew my first love would not be my last
But the realisation to never see the face I once adored, feels the worst.
Is that you? Oh well, that’s the wind!
But what’s the sensation I feel on my head everytime I try to fall asleep.
Am I hallucinating?
Could be, your love probably drove me crazy, I feel like drowning deep!
I am not broken, but I feel incomplete
Life just, seems not so romantic and sweet.
You and I exist in different dimensions now, I hope your soul sleeps gently, in peace,
While mine crashes like a tsunami of grief
You, a silent star in the afterlife’s sky,
And me, a restless ocean in a thunderstorm.
They say expect the worst, but this was not on the menu of nightmares.
Now I talk to you every night, not in dreams, but in the shadows behind my eyes.
We have become a love story cursed to echo
In a house where the doors never close
And the mirrors still whisper your name.
But you are gone, and I am here, left alone
With the memories and nightmares
With a shattered heart and insane mind.
Where I doubt whether its you brushing my shoulder
But no, its the wind.
It would forever be the wind.
Illustration by Jadie Bu
by Haider Surka
Photograph
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CONTRIBUTORS
Aaro
Aastha Kotak
Billy Brysky
Frankie Legaspi
Grace McPharlin
Haider Surka
Jadie Bu
Jessie Showell
Jiacheng Zhou
Jordan Miller
Katie Ley
Lavica Wu
Leah Herderich
Lilly Henwood
Niharika Randhawa
Noor Grover
Pavahaariny Kathegesen
Priya Malhotra
Sanusha S Sritharan
Scarleth Molina Arias
Sowmya Jayatheertha Vaikar
Tia Kyriacou
Tushar Kishorbhai Patel
Yajurved Patel
Yasara Karandeniya
Yerin Choi
@aaro.xyz
@billy_brysky
@fruichus / @fraangipanis
@ragingconfusion
@surka_haider
@ jadieandhervividinnerself
@jessieshowell / @jessieshowelldesign
@jiachengzou0829
@st4r.lite_
@katie.ley
@ bylwca / @lavicawu
@leahlikespaint
@niharikarandhawa13
@lusterduster / @grovernoor_
@pava1999
@shugochara_prista
@alsogoesbysanu
@scar.creates
@thepixeltravellor
@tia.scribbles
@ar_tee1990
@yajju_19
@yasaramusic
