amo in astra et rursus
we quarrel quite an awful lot,
but we’re the cat’s meow, are we not?
and when my systems fail and glitch
you sew me back up stitch by stitch.
and when it’s dark the night becomes lit,
but only with you, dear needlewit.
mixter brightside, violence not ommitted [i have a terrible penchant for making everything terrible]
jealousy
i’ll cast you into the sea
you’ll swim through sick lullabies
choke you with your alibi
it’ll be the price you pay.
what to do when you worry too much
what to worry when you do too much
procyon a [in the dressing room of the milky way]
“Aye, Scrimshank,” He says, accent rich and smooth like honey.
It’s funny. When combined with his sister’s, he sounds almost serious. But now, you can tell he’s smiling just from his tone of voice. Every word has that characteristic ‘jump’ at the end, and you turn to greet him. Surely enough, his pale lips are twisted into a grin, and you take a moment to pick of the details of his rather severe face. His jaw is angular and his nose doesn’t curve outwards or inwards, but rather points down in a constant slant like someone had expertly chiseled it into the strangest shape they could imagine.
And although they share a similar facial structure, he’s shorter and stouter than her - not to say that she’s tall. The both of them make an extraordinarily tiny pair. It’s not unusual for white dwarfs.
He’s a charmer, you think to yourself. It’s not even a formal occasion and he’s taken the time to wear his badge.
And it’s an equally charming badge, pinned on the breast pocket of his off-white jacket. Procyon A, Alpha Canis Minoris, it reads, in bold, etched in text, white on the matte gold background.
“It’s been a while, don’t you think?” He chuckles, extending his gloved hand.The two of you must look picturesque right now - all dressed up and ready to put on a show!
“Quite.”
You take his hand in your own and give a firm handshake as any ambassador for humanity would. You watch as he draws back and begins to search for something in one of his many pockets.
“Delegate Scrimshank,” He says, producing something from his pocket.
It’s another badge, but this time with a different crest. Surely enough, it reads Delegate Scrimshank. But you’re surprised to see under it the words Honorary Envoy of the Winter Triangle. He pins it to your jacket and you give him a quizzical look.
“And this is?” You adjust it and brush your hair back to look back up at him.
“Yours. Welcome to the Triangle, Delegate,” He pats you on the shoulder. “Go back down there and do our constellation proud.”
grey matter
It’s an odd feeling, like waking up somewhere you forgot you’d fallen asleep.
And then it comes back in a deluge of memories and thoughts and feelings, the past night full to spilling with reasons and rhymes.
You know, I wouldn’t ordinarily have chosen something so skittish. But I’m changing.
Skittish and targeted. Hunted. Sleep with your eyes closed and you’ll die. It’s the first rule. Don’t ignore it. Listen up. Your antlers will leave you during winter. You’ll have no more defense. It’s getting closer. Gear up. You’ll have nobody to save you come July.
And I walk like everyone’s watching when really, nobody could care less.
Each stride is carefully thought out. But I’m itching, I’m aching, I’m yearning, thirsting. There’s this insatiable hunger pulsing through dark veins under pale skin - fragile and permeable.
Deviant thoughts settle in and pitch their sales to more of their kind until it feels like my brain is going to give in and slowly deteriorate, seeping down through my mouth and nostrils, spilling onto the ink and processed wood until my hands are covered with everything I have ever known.
❝ I really don’t know what ‘I love you’ means. I think it means ‘Don’t leave me here alone.’ ❞
comparable to the roosters, i am.
aye.
e in effetti il corvo galli forte e chiaro questa mattina nebbiosa.
Permission to please, please.
Musical medicine and audiovisual ailments.
