wen ● di ● go

The Devil and God are raging inside me. ✖ ✖ ✖ ✖ ✖ ✖

[bwxhanyoung]

- - hanhee mix

animus:anima - cid rim // about you (subdaio remix) - xxyyxx // i think it is beautiful that you are 256 colors too - black moth super rainbow // lies - trifonic // bad wings - the glitch mob // skeleton key - love inks // pretty thoughts - alina baraz & galimatias // luminesce - balam acab

[bwxhanyoung]

Danse Macabre ♀ Tiffany/Hanyoung

[tiffanybw-deactivated20140424]

Very still was the summer night – humid in its own unique way – the intensified heat lingering heavily in the air despite the apparent lateness. Conservative people made their way off of the cobblestone streets and back to the safety of their homes as the wilder people, the younger crowd, ventured into the Carnival in a seemingly drunken state. Luminous lights blurred with the effects of poisoned amber liquid, bodies swayed together, stumbling with each unexpected contact with a stranger. It was unusual for the brunette belle to be out so late and so alone during this time, and normally, she would be with decent company, however, tonight was different. For the past few days, the embodiment of Eve in a lonesome solitude by fleeting friends and an uncaring father– a job was more important than the company of an unwanted daughter – and in this brief period of loneliness, she took the time to take hold of the life she was given with impulsiveness. 

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[bwxhanyoung]

The specter is the retainer to the living organisms identified as human’s, draining her lifeblood and substituting it with unsympathetic, exacting rainwater contaminated by toxins and avarice. A sprite of the combined atoms of hydrogen and water, her spirit rolls across his diaphanous eyelashes, and the corrosive acid of her lament dissolves his flesh. His visage is corrupted into aperture skin, and perforated his facial language contracts in an occurrence of scarcity, yielding emotion for the wayward woman imprisoned in a child’s hallucination. “Am I dolomite, Epicaste?” His response, resonant and prompting the million ghosts that annexed the palace of trance and patina, questions the enslaved of her existence as a virgin – or had she not yet presented tragety to the biosphere? “Thank you, but if I become ill I will accept the retrogression of my physical form. To be gifted with a reminder of mortality and living, I will take advantage – but fragile?” His eyes are crystal ball spheres, and if she possesses clairvoyance, she shall detect the residuum of curio and amusement in spite of the transient frown. “Do you wish to insult me and my interferons?” Tempted to hum, he blinds himself, uncertain why he should receive such enticements, and yet, the exhale he breathes is evocative of a sigh when those eyes of his are exposed again. Silence has graced them, the crowds a memory as they tuck themselves away underneath shelters. He can only hear the result of a magick spell, Ambisagrus’s hymn reverberating and rescinding the candied musick and forgoing restraint, Hanyoung ruminates the apparition’s fortune, observing the material fraught over her skeleton to be ceramic, translucent and blanch.

She has become inundated in moonlight and his lips separate, perhaps to ramble in the madness of lunar instability, voice honey-dipped in the syrup of wordsmiths. “Or are you Laius, with me as your oracle?” Considering phoenix enchantments, he pities the cycle of resurrection, his defenses stripping as the taunt muscles of his shoulder relax. He strides forward, legs indolent and treacherous to him, they are merely feeble tools that he pays no heed to. “I offer you a warning; your first born son will seek sexual possession and murder to gain his delusionary aspiration.” Syllables are notes of an orchestra, his twin horizontal mucous membrane are dehydrated goat’s gut, his throat the neck of Set’s cello. “Bestow to him the forename Oedipus, and once the descendant slumbers, asphyxiate him in water sanctified to be holy.” Musings gyre in the air, plaiting helixes and ringlets through the raindrops ceased in the universes’ munificent repose, and he compares the predestined beauty to the deity captive within the instant photograph, the living and deceased regenerations parallel to one another, tainted by hypomanic gospels.  “Maybe you are correct…fragile…” He cannot transform the spectacle before him, not the sustained reality of the obfuscating deceitful carnival. The lurid shades are besmirched, manipulated to be monochrome as weather foils their euphoria, and he stops, stands directly across from Epicaste, his fingers so wary that he forces them to stiffen, frightened that the memorial portraiture will be purloined by the looming tempest. “What do you know…of fragile substances?” Hanyoung questions her, and his eyes flicker to the present image of the accursed woman, water threading through his hair and caressing his azure tinted ears. 

[bwxhanyoung]

[bwxhanyoung]

Salvific ♅ Minhee/Hanyoung

[bwxminhee]

Wounds of colorful stories were never cruel.  He was no Elephant Man with deformities or ash skin, bumps and those who were repulsed by such person ran away in fear. And they hid such grotesque figures away from the world, hidden in basements, inescapable, lacking in oxygen and flung away from the cruel universe of reality and mirrors that would show him how gnarled he really was, shivering in fright, and possibly escaping. But Hanyoung was more a wonder, one she’d spend all day speaking to, staring at, there was no one as beautiful as him. Others would experiment, finding blood samples, cutting off his ear after she was done with him, but she only watched, carelessly becoming attached to him. There were few who would dwell in her insanity. And though she was to become a patient of her lunacy, she would only allow him to enter the realm of disjointed thoughts and broken hinges of actions that others judged because of her abnormality. He could scribble her sanity in bloody ink, extract the coal located in the “oil” of her joints and create a gold coating to fool others.

Acidity was found in his body as she breathed in oxygen that was foreign to her. But it was soon forgotten as he recited words of bleach and poison. His voice was aching, sweet beauty, but had been long forgotten, she wondered if his vocal chords had become a net for other important things than speaking. Her breath hitched, not knowing how to reply to such quotes, should she continue the story or paint colors into the sky. Add grays to the already dismal painting, her paint brush seemed to find colors that weren’t gray or black or white, splattering the once dismal canvas with touches of pastels and reds.  ”And yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid,” she replied. They become disjointed in thoughts and words, her lips only uttering mortal and unneeded things that become useless in such situations. She became quiet, allowing the man to continue with his tales and words, her figure shivering at the thought that she’d become useless to divine being like him.

He visited the cruel towns. He went back. He left for personal matters. And anxiety ran through her veins as she listened to the words he said. But with a sigh, she ran her fingers through his damp darkness, relaxing herself as she did so, one had to wonder why the world was polluted with midnight sadness, full moons that turned the tides to its highest, affecting not only the bodies of water, but humans’ capabilities and actions. Her lips were anxious to ask him questions that would cause him to continue the story, yet the soars of questions stop and she was left with a repetition of sounds that haven’t reached her ears before. Her questions were cut by the blade of silence, his head against her shoulders and she wrapped her arms around his wary soul, wondering how one could ever be blamed they had no power over. How to ever believe that he was wrong for doing such things. Minhee didn’t know of such things. But the words left her needing more of his melody to listen to and to whisper tales that would ease his own soul. “It all hurts,” she whispered, she knew that he bathed in his sadness, drank his own poison, danced with demons and it never disappeared, it only remained dormant for the time being. “You’ll find your blood, fate is a cruel person. Pain is necessary in life, it’s the only way to achieve loveliness,” she continued. His words petrified her. They were borderline madness and insomnia, the demons had gotten to him as well, told him to stay wide awake and pull on his arms until they cracked and shattered. It was violent and cynical for them. She ran her fingers through his hair, his words being caught by the butterfly net and she could only stare at them and watch the wings flutter about. “Shh, you attempted, others would have surrendered to those demons, it will happen in time,” she finished, still combing his hair, undoing the tangles in his hair and silently praying that he would find who he was searching for. 

[bwxhanyoung]

Paresthesia beleaguered him, anathematizing him to puppet’s indolence as her fingers ran through his stringy, lukewarm water hair, creating streams of pain analogous with her verses. She gifted him forgiveness and he knew not of respiration or circulation. Was she the embodiment of Styx and him, Phlegethon? Was it inevitable for him to consume her in his flames and send her to Hades? Mania was weaved into his fibrovascular tissue and with pupils that quivered he stared into the material of her shirt, tormented by her mercy, the barbs piercing into his skull, and the venomous guilt drawn from his intent to imprison her beside him. How dreadful was he for these actions of brutality; immobilizing his soul and lacerating it in the name of discovery and surgical procedure. The iridescent Morpho Menelaus had its wings pinned into red velvet and she continued to whisper to him of lucidity and exertions no less than valiant. Could he ever live a life without inflicting anguish onto his counterpart? The taste of larvae infected the back of his tongue and his spine convulsed, adhering a fragile will to part from her, moving away in a motion strained, the negative magnet forced away from the positive, cold, and yet, not alone. “You can't promise me that – you cannot feed me idealistic dreams. Anima, who am I to allow you to deceive us?” He brooded with straw vocal cords, hoarse self-criticism and hysteria that sieged against invented lies, existing in a vertigo biosphere.

Hanyoung couldn’t perceive the water droplets inert upon the bathroom’s tilted floor, his world shrouded by the mist of Melancholia, possessing dead weight arms of quarts and a heart of putrid lumber. More so than he prayed for the sun’s daily ascension he beseeched his subconscious for the permission to mutter the name of his spirit again, vocalize reality’s sweet illusion, but speech was forbidden now that the apple of sin had lodged itself inside his throat, and he had not the strength to claw the fruit from his flesh – he was destined to decompose alongside it. Opposed to echoing indebted ballads and preforming aria’s lament, he breathed nitrogen and argon, swallowed intakes of humid air into his dizzy mind. What has he done to them? Naturally, he surrendered, pulled in by her gravity into a respite in contrast to her once again, oxygen escaping his ossified lungs in feeble exhales constrained against her shoulder and brittle nephrite bones. The thoughts he could not translate into articulation were his bane, woefully entranced by his mind’s repetition of depreciation and the reminder that he did not deserve to have a soul. “Are we mad?” He questioned the other half in a precarious whisper, carving the inquiry into her membrane. Rightfully, Minhee should absorb their collective humanity and imbibe on his mortality, carve delicate ivory feathers from his skeleton and construct tangible wings for herself. The seraph could only be corrupted by Hell’s scum, and he was selfish for thanking the universe for plaguing her to be tangled to him in a kaleidoscope of gossamer threads tied around their gaunt limbs.

Suffering, he quelled the tremors throughout the interval, commanded his fingers to retrieve his shirt pigmented by blackberries. Incapable of clutching one of the elongated sleeves, his grip was reduced to lassitude. “Yes - what are we without the grace of misery? Mere empty vessels, glass dolls with translucent, vapid emotions. You’re right, I accept the pain, but will not submit to it, and neither will you.” He alleged the beliefs sewn outside his organic structure, the constructs of his psyche, rejecting the despondency threatening to slaughter him despite its perpetual existence coursing through his bone marrow. “Minhee,” The assertion vanishes in the syllables of her existence, her name an interpretation of the dyed sunrays which leak through Sainte Chapelle’s sanctified, stained glass windows, and his legs rediscover stability, rising, stumbling, but not falling. His naked foot squeaks stridently against the floor, saving him from a concussion. “Your equilibrium has always outmatched mine; I was never suited to be an acrobat like yourself. The tightrope always abhorred me specifically.” Divulging his admiration, the profile of his countenance shifts, a smile directed to the woman transcending human definitions of beauty, she’s – “Phosphenes, divine phosphenes …” Wistful thinking, it’s spoken in a sognando and Hanyoung dons the article of clothing oblivious to the water sticking to his form. It is an insignificant detail, he’ll shower properly momentarily, and what is substantial retains his tongue, albeit clumsily and concurrent to his ailing, outstretched arms offering to pull her up, apologizing. “I made ginger tea for you.”

[bwxjongsuk]

-- Tracker

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[bwxhanyoung]

He’s a ghost, she thinks one time, diaphanous skin, limbs and bones that she can clearly see, his inky eyes that stare at hers and ones that she can usually understand because it’s their language, language of loops and swirls, pastel blues and bright yellows,

she has a penchant for their language.

[bwxminhee]

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

[bwxhanyoung]

Throwing herself onto his bed, she relaxes, the anger that rose had boiled down, her fingers relaxed and though this was against school policy, knowing that his sheets still smelled like him and that he didn't disappear into thin air or became a star in the sky, made her content. Mumbling nonsensical words, her eyes fluttered and she felt herself falling asleep with dreams of Hanyoung.

His skin was sullied with ink, the knowledge written upon his wrists and directed by blue veins, guidelines of this parchment. The pen itself had been abandoned, desiccated and recycled, replaced as humans were when he’d retrieve another from the desk drawer. It isn’t until two in the morning when Hanyoung returns to the dormitory, and another three minutes and thirty seven seconds pass before he enters his room, an abode of organized in chaos; the dead preserved in jars of formaldehyde – but taxidermy was a hobby compared the majority of his work. His paces make no sound, as if he’s specter hovering above the floor, resting his rucksack upon the desk, eyes peripatetic between various papers tacked and taped to the walls – maps and pages torn from books, dream catchers pendulous from the ceiling and the scent of sage that pacified anxious nerves. He pauses, static in the middle of his room, frozen in the wake to the other half of his soul, a severed spirit unconscious, sleeping on his bed.

He knows Minhee as he does the back of his hand; had memorized everything about her, created maps of her in his mind – habits, patterns, scars and the rhythm of her heart. Fairy Tales, the love for them is entwined in her heartstrings, as if she had woken up to the world after inhaling scopolamine, had read tales of princesses and magic before picking up tombs of physics and biology. Naturally, the scene follows as it had in the past, and he routinely removes his shoes and carefully lies down beside her. His side presses into the mattress, and certain he would not wake her, he prepares the recital of the story of Sleeping Beauty. The tale had been seared into his brain after the tenth retelling, memorized for all eternity, and he whispered, beginning to embellish the tale of fairies and a woman that sang like a Nightingale.

“Once upon a time, there lived a calamitous king and queen, and within their crystal castle they mourned, for they could not bear children….”

[bwxhanyoung]

Azimuthal Projection ♃ Tatiana/Hanyoung

This was anything but a practice in stalking. In fact, the subconscious, antagonistic accusation had sent tremors through his phrenic nerves, and mirth was naturally subsequent. However, laughter was effortlessly restrained by a method of lip-biting. Professors were to be revered; those martyrs of knowledge, their jade skeletons nailed to wooden calvaries, and therefore they sequestered themselves from indefinite research and innovation for the sake of imminent generations. His appendages, and their reproachful and treacherous fingerprints, were caged by a glaze of plastic. He wore gloves to ensure innocence with the purpose of espionage, flipping through pilfered documents often inscribed in a language fundamentally foreign to him – English. Of course the mystifying governess possessed an extraneous tongue. Hanyoung expressed his vexation in a grievance muffled by his right palm, the opposite preoccupied with programming the photocopier, pressing buttons and selecting satisfactory inputs.

Odium was an English word derived from Latin.

‘Od’ – I hate.

The state or fact of being subject to hatred and contempt as a result of a despicable act or blameworthy circumstance.

Judas Iscariot.

Odium theologicum is the bitter hatred between rival theologians.

He was not yet prepared to be ostracized as Judas.

Each facsimile article was filed in a manila folder that had been purchased with one thousand won exactly three weeks ago, and the file was ravenous. He fed the dossier of Tatiana Maslany with printed ink and miasma filtered photographs along with the record of her connections and habits. Haebyeol was a name of significance, and he’d ponder if the two women were monarchs of the Midnight Kingdom. Within his rucksack Hanyoung enclosed what had developed into a customary research endeavor, an additional pursuit to ascertain the reality of an enigma. He was cursed with a desire to dissect peculiar humans when they materialized before him, and Medusa, with those diamond eyes which threatened to transform him into marble, must be born of contradictions and disorientation. A night of inebriation and polygons was customary of the instructor, and her smiles were genuine and defined by creases, the blatant joviality enchanted by a bespectacled glare.

What was she seeking in the biospheres of hallucination and depressants?

His hands, persistently sealed by thin barriers, seized the original papers, tucked the entirety of them underneath his arm and his pupils oscillated between the egress that would lead him into the library, and a clock that read twenty past five in the morning. “Ra, certainly you are familiar with my loyalties, how they lie with Enki. However, I request that you direct your scrutiny elsewhere for the remainder of the hour. My appeal is trivial; nonetheless, I require the shadows to ensure the completion of this expedition.” A prayer, and it was spoken as such, whispers that rivaled the outlying serenades of Schizophrenic spirits. “Hail Ra, ruler of the sun.” The false denouement was snuffed by a mumble, and his legs progressed, extending forward until his hands were in contact with a handle of cold metal, thus he turned it, prompted the mechanism, and ever so prudently opened the door.

[pagantendencies]

[bwxhanyoung]

Danse Macabre ♀ Tiffany/Hanyoung

Lilliputian infernos were the hearts of paper lanterns, incandescent fire organs to bless Sinchon-dong’s dusk with luminosity, and when winds of the South breathed through the modern labyrinth they palpitated, several dying from congestive cardiac failure.  He stood, underneath the ostentatious clouds of gray, pensile above the crowd meandering throughout a world modernized, traditional lighting fixtures neglected in favor for playful, krypton, neon lights. The guests were distracted by naïve, juvenile excitement and wonder, hypnotized and delirious from the fluorescence and mercury vapor. Carnival, pure sugary delight, and he captured the spectacle, sealed it within Polachrome slide film, their ephemeral smiles immortalized. A melody of electronic infatuation danced within the stalls of food and game, and he held an instant photograph glazed in reagents, the opaque black abyss gradually fading into a scene of mirth diluted by a dreary emulsion layer, himself the force of inertia among the conviviality, observing and recording.

Hanyoung caches the snapshot in a utilitarian pocket of his jacket, the material assuming minimal tears despite a year of hazardous escapades and shenanigans, and it rests between numerous, stolen scenes printed throughout the hour; a collection of candid joviality and veiled suffering. The blinking, patterned light art coiled around the Ferris Wheel support beams deluge down upon him, shadowing the contours of his visage and transmuting his flesh into iridescent heliochrome skin, entwining with the filaments of his hair as he proceeds taking paces forward, hand seizing the recording device pendent wrapped around his neck. “On August seventeenth, twenty-zero-seven, I am twelve years of age and dazed and intoxicated by the self-abuse and antiquated practices of outcast performers. What I see at eight thirty six pm, at the moment of fifteen, sixteen – seventeen – seconds, is a dragon woman. Her scales are black ink, horns silicone protruding from underneath her forehead, fangs shaved razors apexes and her scleras lava rock, and we only witness her bliss when she exhales firestorms and paraffin…” His voice, poised and distorted by noise, pauses, forces a repose in his retelling and hangs the reminiscence from his lips as the dated camera is redirected, aimed at an individual swallowed by this superficial, replicated radiance.

He did not know of beauty. The lens would replace his corneas, the focus of his vision diminished, eyes pruned to perceive a translucent, contaminated haze. Only fools deceived themselves into faith of the perpetual, and granted he imprisoned the woman on film (which is either the penitentiary of her memory or proof of his phantasm of Amphitrite), neither the imitation nor the original was forever. “Today, as the clock strikes eight, will the Gods spare us their regards? Will they smile?” Hanyoung’s questions are destined for mummers, his words the watercolor percolating the apertures of the fragile, glass world of otiose mortals – suffocating on their sinfully vain self-indulgence. Finite was the ultimate law, extinction nipping at humanity’s heels, and he handles the fresh photograph between index finger and thumb, analyzing the materialization of a stonewashed stranger, immobile even when the river of Lethe rains down upon the transitory masses.

[bwxhanyoung]

` invitation letter

Dear Caterpillar,

Welcome to the dazzling show of Wonderland, you see, you follow that silly Alice around Wonderland, your duties involve always telling her of her Queen of Hearts delusions, it must be because of the things you smoke that you are having these hallucinations, though it must be because of you that she is killing all these subjects. I beg you to stop, I do believe, are you calling me the Queen? My dear friend, I am of your kind! Excuse me, Mr. Blue Caterpillar, are you -  No, don't you dare call her over - I - you bloody betrayer, I'll have you dead. 

Sincerely, The Cheshire Cat

[bwxminhee]

` concerning homeroom b

Humans are so tedious, causing chaos when it’s not needed. And even elders can’t control those who need to be on a leash. Homeroom B, you have caused demons to stir and arise in my body. And for that, you will suffer under my own hands.

If it’s a ringleader you need, then I will have to step up. Each and everyone must participate in the display of fashions, I do not care if you want to be a model or not, but you must participate even if you’d like to transfer out of the homeroom. To cause such anger to boil, you have been warned. ALL HOMEROOM B STUDENTS ARE REQUIRED TO HELP.

In rudimentary language: get your shit together, I’m not fucking around here. You need to get your lazy asses up and do something.

[tsunddered]

[bwxhanyoung]

Salvific ♅ Minhee/Hanyoung

bwxminhee:

He left her in misery. Masquerading sadness with happiness wasn’t a challenge, it was finding a demon that would distract such sadness from the soles of her feet or finding a monster to cause chaos with. Whenever he left, he caused the demons to spread their wings and destroy hardware, causing required programs to become obsolete. She played fortune teller, asking tea leaves at the bottom of her mug when her oracle would be in her grasps, though she didn’t have the abilities that Hanyoung had. But without him, the air wasn’t meant to breathe, only trace gases and argon filled her lungs, lungs that were only meant to inhale the Hanyoung’s sweet scent and air, recycling words and phrases so that she’d never forget (if that was even possible) his melodies and harmonies, his touch or how he told others of their fortunes. 

Staring at the ground, her orbs stared at the man who looked exhausted and opaque, very eccentric to her dark eyes, ghosts were to be translucent and beautiful, pass through walls and doors, but he was in physical form on the ground, her chest exhaling and inhaling. Without words, her hands found themselves playing with his fingers as she placed the papers of graphite to the side, her fingers ran through his dark hair, it needed to be washed. What demons had created it so that he would not be clean? Her imagination wondered where he had disappeared off to and when he recovered his physical body. Though Minhee knew it was temporary, every little bit of this body was temporary. Silently, she dragged the man across the floors as though he was a doll of some sort, still silently worrying that she’d harm his body in some sort or if she’d have to catch his soul once she pressed her fingers onto his shirt or if he’d turn into dust if she’d pour water onto his body that needed to be cleansed and transparent once more. Humming, Minhee pulled off his shirt, making him lean against the bathtub, he was to be her doll for a moment, she’d change and dress him so it was suitable for the traditional humans. Her lips pressed against his forehead, a sign of deep affection. She still didn’t understand what kissing one meant, but she knew Hanyoung’s lips tasted like stardust and he was the sweetest ambrosia that she could ever taste. But humans believed that the lips were the passage to underlying emotions and a sensual pleasure that Minhee couldn’t understand or feel the need to understand. 

"You disappeared," Minhee stated as her fingers scrubbed the filth out of him, any secular dirt that he put himself in and she paused a little as shampoo made bubbles on his head, making her giggle at the magical attributes of shampoo and bubbles could be made out of soap. "But you’re here now," she finished as she washed the remainder of the filth from his upper half of his body. "Why did you leave?" she asked curiously, as she sat across from him, her eyes staring into his. She desired answers from this immortal being, where he drank wine or if he danced with other ghouls, met princes from other kingdoms, oh she desired everything from the wanderer of worlds.

He has been saved.

Minhee was salvation, a raison d'etre, completion, and the feminine soul that taught him how to clutch glass without shattering the amorphous spiral. He was without tenacious resistance, a rag doll in her arms subsequent to the touch that articulated their souls, for he could sense her aura, the bridges and ridges. He could perceive how fauns would elevate their injured, mangled necks in the presence of her faith and clemency, how it radiated, filled his lungs with oxygen until the soot was evicted in feeble, quiver distorted coughs. It could only be her to extract the splinters of keen crystalline from his arteries, the ornaments and urns perishing and piercing him when Circe’s umbrage seized him, when he would mummer fools and abuse his body to acknowledge life and living. He was a famished nomad, skeletal and withering with a body ornamented in blemishes of purple, green and yellow, the circular bruises flourishing beyond one hundred, and his eyes were cast downward, not a drop of discomfiture from Minhee repairing him, confiscating his shirt, his pupils dismal and itinerant between reality and oblivion reveries.

She had kissed him and had yet to be poisoned by his arsenic skin and ran her fingers through methanol inundated hair, however she did not wash the sins of a blasphemer from him with blessed hydrogen cyanide. Hanyoung, a recidivist to exhaustion, allowed the edge of the bathtub to press into his ribs, the incapacitated blood cells, one arm pendulous over the opposite hemisphere, the other deadweight, his physical form practically a marionette when his eyes were equivalent to the weight of cinderblocks. He did not display signs of life, did not seek out the rings of her irises, until she spoke, giggled innocence and crooned of sorrow, and what reply he gave her was a quote, declaimed with his vocal cords an antique music box, rusted and temporarily forgotten. “And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.”

Hanyoung’s hand ascended, brushed damp, sanitary clusters of hair away from his eyes, sanctioning himself unobstructed sight to see, lean closer to her, only ceasing movement to spare her of his cruelty. “I had to travel, become a tourist in impersonal cities, many of which we had visited before during years of dragon’s breath and wormwood. The world, it exhausts me, the sound of industrialization and microwaves of hostility and fruitless, painful endeavors – I pity humanity, accursed humanity – and I too drank from the futile oasis. I couldn’t find my blood, and if they slip, if they die…It hurts. Existing hurts…How will I be forgiven?” He elucidates, condensing and reciting his story, his voice becoming sorter, strained with fissures until he whispers, glancing towards the ground, the tiles of white, the bubbles of soap assembled in junctions. “I apologize, sincerely, and I will absorb your suffering. Let it become part of me.” His muttering is sleep talking during narcotherapy, the blackness blinding him repetitively, and it remained when he leaned forward, rested his head against Minhee’s shoulder, speaking, pressing friable words into the hollow bones of collar. “Forgive me.”

[qrixbw-deactivated20131121]

Raygne ♇ Qri/Hanyoung

[qrixbw-deactivated20131121]

The water were already soaking into her clothes, making the surroundings even more ruthless and cold than they already were. Heaving another sigh, she looked around, a pair of feet walking towards her made her look up to see who it was. She looked up at a face she didn’t know but nonetheless, he was offering to help her and she extended a hand moving it into his, wincing a bit as she stood up. “I know…” he voice was humble and low, picking up her bags and the wet earphones. She huffed in defeat, stuffing them inside the bag of clothes to let them dry. Her eyes shifted back to the male holding the umbrella, smiling small and bowed slightly, teeth chattering in the cold. “T-Thank you for helping me u-up.” 

[bwxhanyoung]

The stranger complied, and his fingertips pressed against the outside of her hand, the exterior freezing – a corpse from the callous rainfall. Her weight was transferred, compelled upwards with a pull, and in seconds she stood, their hands detaching, and the pupils in his eyes studied the lesions, untended exposed cesspools of valiant blood cells and flu season viruses. “Your shoe, it’s been fragmentized.” He states an observation, any hint of social normalcy nonexistent, traditional absent as he neither nods nor bows. His actions are on a wavelength unknown, underneath the atmosphere, and he moves, leaning towards the ground to tug at the laces of faux leather boots, scuffed, yet not dilapidated from half a decades use. “A path walked in those, especially when the weather is frightful, is dangerous and guarantees multiple abrasions.” Hanyoung’s explanation is straightforward; the tone a note higher from monotony as he slides the footwear off of his feet and fills the empty pockets of his coat with socks, the fibers mostly dry, apathetic when his bare feet are embraced by shallow water and the yawns of Jack Frost. “Wear these for now. Where are you headed?” Now a question, the volume just loud enough to rise above chatter and traffic, the shout of a mother and electronic-made music echoing from the cellular phone store two blocks north, and he looks at her, spine straightened and extending the umbrella over her head, awaiting a response from this bruised, negligent seraph.

[bwxhanyoung]

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