there's always glimmer // copia x f!oc. sfw. 1.24k words. wildly self-indulgent attempt at comforting myself while i've been going through it *finger guns* depression/recovery/comfort/domestic fluff question mark? domestic something anyway. tl;dr: he loves her.
copia's ✨sorella prediletta✨ (whose name is isolde, everyone say hello isolde) has been in a deep depression for several months. he catches her in a candid moment and realises the fog may have started to lift.
The sound of her voice, thin and a little off-key, stops him dead in the hallway.
Copia stands there, one foot frozen in front of the other, and listens. It's a pop song on the radio, and she's butchering the melody, but she's singing. She's singing while the knife thump-thump-thumps against the chopping board in a steady, familiar rhythm.
He hasn't heard her sing in months. Not even a hum.
He pads to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. The kitchen smells like onions and garlic frying in olive oil, and the early evening sunlight slants across the tile, catching the dust motes dancing above the stove. Isolde's back is to him, her dark hair damp and falling loosely down her back. She moves between the chopping board and the pan, her hips swaying just a little in time to the tinny sounds coming from the small radio on the counter.
She's singing along. Not properly, not with any effort. Just humming the melody, then catching a phrase she knows. Her voice is scratchy from disuse, the notes flat and out of place, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. The sight of her is so ordinary it feels sacred and it cracks something open in his chest. A tight, anxious knot he's been carrying for so long he'd forgotten what breathing felt like without it.
The silence, her silence, in their room had been a physical thing. A thick, heavy blanket smothering everything. She'd been present, but folded in on herself, a closed fist. He'd bring her tea and she'd stare at the wall. He'd talk about his day and her eyes would be somewhere else, focused on some internal landscape of grey. He'd hold her at night and feel the tension in her shoulders, the rigid line of her spine, and wonder where she really was. He learned to move quietly. To make just enough noise to let her know he hadn't let go, and then exist alongside the absence of her.
And now, here she is. Singing badly to a terrible song. Frying onions and garlic in a pan. It sizzles and she jumps back with a tiny, startled laugh—a real one—and the sound punches right through his ribs.
She turns to grab a wooden spoon from the ceramic jar on the counter and catches him in the corner of her eye. The singing stops. Her eyes go wide for a second, then soft, and a faint pink flush creeps over her cheeks.
"Oh, love. How long have you been lurking?"
"Just a second," he lies, his own voice rough with emotion. He pushes off from the door frame and walks towards her, stopping a few feet away, not wanting to crowd her. Not wanting to break whatever fragile spell this is. He looks at her face. The shadows under her eyes are still there, but there's a glimmer in them he hasn't seen since spring. It's not a blazing fire, not yet. It's the first stubborn coal glowing in a pile of ash, but it's burning.
"You're singing," he says. Obviously, he thinks.
She looks down at the spoon, then back at him, a shy, crooked smile touching her lips. "It was on the radio. I used to hate this song."
"I know." He remembers. She'd groan and change the station every time.
"It's growing on me," she shrugs, turning back to the stove, and giving the contents of the pan a stir. "I'm making pasta. Nothing fancy. I was hungry."
He hears what she doesn't say. I wanted to make something. I had the energy to make something. The simple, monumental facts of it swell in his chest until it aches.
He closes the last of the distance, coming to stand behind her. He doesn't touch her, just rests his hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her gently between his arms. He rests his chin gently on her shoulder, his lips close to her ear. He can smell the citrus scent of her shampoo, new and fresh. Proof of a quiet victory he knows she will not count as one.
"Isolde," he murmurs.
"Hmm?"
He lowers his head and presses a gentle kiss to her shoulder, then nuzzles his face in closer to hers. He feels her still, then lean back slightly into the contact. A tiny, willing weight against him.
"There you are," he breathes into her hair.
She lets out a shaky sigh. The spoon clatters softly against the edge of the pan as she sets it down. Her hands come up, not to push him away, but to rest over his where they grip the counter. Her fingers are warm.
"I've missed you," she whispers, so low he almost doesn't catch it over the sizzle of the pan and the radio DJ's chatter.
"Amore," he says, the old endearment feeling new on his tongue. He turns his hands under hers, lacing their fingers together. "You've got your light back."
She makes a small, choked sound that he can't quite place and turns in the circle of his arms, her face tilted to his. Her eyes are bright, and a little wary, like an animal stepping out into sunlight after a long winter in a dark den. He brushes a thumb over the apple of her cheek, where the skin is warm from the stove. He sees the tired lines that haven't quite faded. But her gaze is clear. Present. Here.
"It's just pasta."
"It's more than pasta, Isolde," he corrects, and he means it.
He leans in and kisses her. It's not careful, not hesitant like the kisses he's given her in the dark these past months. This one is a slow rediscovery. The taste of her mouth and the way her hands come up to curl in the front of his shirt, holding on. He pours all the waiting and the worry, all the helpless love into it, and she returns just as she takes.
When he pulls away, her cheeks are wet. She looks down. "Feels strange," she admits, voice a husk of a thing. "To be here. In the kitchen. Making dinner. Like a person."
"You are a person. My person." He says it plain, because it is plain. The most fundamental truth he knows.
They look at each other then. A wordless understanding, an acceptance, until another tear escapes her. She swipes at it with the back of her wrist, laughing a little at herself. "The garlic is going to burn."
"Let it burn," he says, but he releases her, stepping back just enough to let her breathe, to let her move. "We have survived worse than some bitter garlic, no?"
She huffs a laugh, turning to the stove and grabbing the spoon to give the pan a frantic stir. Another song begins on the radio, something slow and saxophone-heavy. She hums again, just a few bars, her body swaying automatically as she works.
Copia leans back against the counter, crosses his arms, and watches her, letting the simple, profound relief of it all fill the room.
The dark ocean of the last few months hasn't receded forever. He knows that much. He knows it's still out there, and that the tide could come back in at any point. But for this evening, in this warm, messy kitchen smelling of slightly scorched garlic, she is on the shore.
And she is singing.
ok so i didn't write this with this song (or any tbh) in mind but when i was thinking of a title it came to me, and in hindsight actually feels quite fitting :')
gia margaret - groceries
though it's not easy to see
there's always glimmer
you bought the groceries
and you let the light in
you let the light in
when it's dark
"Shot on 16mm film and featuring the only pro-shot footage from the phone-free SKELETOUR WORLD TOUR, the film also includes exclusive behind-the-scenes interludes showcasing the crew members that make the band’s theatrical vision into nightly reality."
"One should remain hopeful and try to understand that quite small tricks can actually be helpful. And I promised myself back then, just like anyone who falls off the horse, I have to get back into the saddle and redefine what this is all about. Because I know that, deep down, I have a burning desire to do this."
"their fingers tipping ur chin up, caressing your jaw and their thumb slowly parts your lips, dipping it into your mouth" for Copia, GN reader!
this has been in my inbox for a long time. please forgive me!
“Do not be nervous,” the Cardinal purrs, his finger already traveling up your neck from the collar of your shirt. It’s gloved, the sensation smooth with pressure that assures you he is in control.
That doesn’t make you any less nervous.
A shattered breath leaves your lips, and he has the audacity to chuckle. “You aren’t listening to me, are you? Too lost in the way my hand feels, hmm?” This time, he drags his forefinger to your jaw, pressing in hard, and you struggle to contain yourself. He grabs your chin hard and forces you to look up at him, to see him in his unholy greatness.
“Say something.” He nearly laughs, amused by your reaction. But, how can you react any other way? A call to the Cardinal’s office was never anything to celebrate unless it came with a certificate of completion for his Ghoulish Glimpses course, which was so very popular. You hadn’t taken the course.
“I don’t know why I’ve been called here,” you muster, hands hanging limply by your sides despite how tight the rest of your body is. “Usually… usually it means—“
“You are in trouble, yes.”
You want to throw yourself on the ground at his feet and beg his forgiveness. Instead, your mouth pops open in a silent “oh.” He takes the opportunity to throw you off with sudden tenderness in his touch. Thumb going back to caressing your jaw, tipping your head back only slightly, but enough that it’s uncomfortable.
Your throat bobs.
“If you continue to daydream during my sermons, I will have no choice but to punish you.” His voice is silk, weaving inside your ears with ease as if he wasn’t threatening you. Brows knit together, and your lip trembles. “Now, none of that,” he husks.
The Cardinal’s thumb finds your lips, just the gentle brush of it sending chills down your spine. Then, he dips it inside your wet, warm mouth. Eyes widen in shock, and you make a choked noise that is muffled by his digit. This time, he outright laughs, and you’re so close that you can see his crow's feet wrinkle with delight. Then, he presses down on your tongue. Hard.
“Mmmfff.”
Your mouth closes around his thumb, and you moan, delicious and flustered.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you might like my kind of punishment, mm?” He removed his thumb from your mouth and brought it to his own lips, his tongue flicking out to lick the leather. Your stomach churns with heat and fear as something starts to unravel inside you.
Maybe he’s right.
“Run along, now.” He dismisses you without a wave of his hand. “Before I change my mind.”
Here’s a small snippet of the line art from an old illustration.
I thought the rats sniffing around in the books were a good image to tie in with the zine’s theme.
Because, I have more to say about the zine!
Like, What's in this zine?
Let's start by looking at the technical specifications.
The zine is A5 size, 14,8 x 21 cm | 5,82 x 8,26 in.
It contains 60 pages of 100 gsm, uncoated, paper,
bound with staples.
As mentioned in previous post, the artzine is the print version of the Sunday posts on Ko-Fi.
Over time, these posts which were originally meant to be just fanart WIPs have come to talk about everything I do that’s even remotely artistic. Like the recent WIP of a traditional painting inspired by an RPG campaign.
So, in short:
2025 artzine: mostly Ghost fan art.
Next: still fanart, with a wider variety of subjects and more personal projects and commissions.
2025 Artzine table of contents :
- Chapter 1. Digital Art. Line art, rough sketches, and finished illustrations can be converted to B&W.
- Chapter 2. Linocut. This section is for those of you who would like to have a copy without having to buy them in large format at a high price.
- Chapter 3. Sketchbook. Anything related to traditional art techniques. Pencil, felt-tip pen, ink, watercolor… sketches, finished drawings…
- Chapter 4. Comics. About ten pages of comics. I have plenty of ideas for the next issues.
I hope I've managed to get you hooked!
If you have any questions, feel free to ask.
otherwise:
The zine is now available for pre-order on my Kofi shop.
The ArtZine is a little art collection summarising my year. Depending on the year, it may contain pencil sketches, sketchbook ink drawings,
Some of you go home together with someone, and some of you do not. Some people like it that way and, unfortunately, some do not. And it is very important that you acknowledge the fact some people are lonely. I have been lonely too, many times. But you know what? One thing is important that you remember: even in times of loneliness, as long as you have the spirits with you, you’re never entirely alone. But also, the utmost important thing to remember: things change. Things always change, with time.
More photos from the shoot last week showcasing my new Primo rosary design that will be available along with my other rosaries at Ghost Con later this year on September 12th!
She played bass on 10,000 songs, including the most-played track of the twentieth century. She was paid $55 per session. Her name never appeared on the albums.
Gold Star Studios, Los Angeles, 1964. A woman in a cardigan walks past the receptionist, a Fender Precision bass in her hand like a briefcase. She doesn’t sign autographs. She signs a timesheet.
Her name is Carol Kaye. In three hours, she will record what will become the most-played track of the twentieth century. She’ll pocket fifty-five dollars and head to another studio, on the other side of town, for the next session.
The record label will never put her name on the album.
Between 1957 and 1973, Carol Kaye took part in roughly 10,000 recording sessions. Not as the featured artist, not as a guest, but as a hired hand. She was part of an anonymous collective nicknamed The Wrecking Crew—elite studio musicians who actually played the instruments on your favorite records while the famous bands posed for promotional photos.
The work was relentless. Three albums before the day was over. Stale coffee in paper cups. No rehearsal. The charts arrived minutes before the tape rolled. If you couldn’t read a chart and nail the take in two tries, you didn’t get called for the next session.
Carol could do it on the first try.
She started playing guitar in grimy bars at fourteen because her family couldn’t pay the electric bill. Music wasn’t a romantic dream for her. It was survival. It was a job—factory work with better acoustics and lower pay.
But she was faster and sharper than almost everyone else. She corrected charts in pencil while the producer was still explaining what he wanted. In one session in 1968, she told a famous producer his arrangement sounded like a dying dog. She chose her own line. They kept her version.
That descending bass line that drives the Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”? Carol Kaye. The propulsive groove of “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’”? Carol Kaye. The acoustic-guitar intro to “La Bamba”? Carol Kaye. The iconic theme from Mission: Impossible? Carol Kaye.
She invented techniques on the spot, out of sheer necessity. When the bass sound was too muddy for AM radio, she stuck felt under the strings and used a hard pick instead of her fingers. The tone cut through the static like a blade. It became the sonic signature that defined 1960s pop.
Bassists spent years—decades—trying to crack the secret of the Beach Boys’ gear to get that sound. They were studying the wrong people. They should have been studying Carol.
She received no royalties. No residuals. No gold-record ceremony. No credit on the album sleeves. When “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” hit number one, Carol was already back in a studio cutting a soap jingle.
The biggest bands mimed her bass lines on TV variety shows. New York marketing departments decided a mom in classic clothes didn’t fit the rebellious-youth image they were selling. So they simply left her name off the album credits.
For thirty years, almost no one cared. The truth only began to surface in the late 1990s, when music researchers found the same union contract numbers on thousands of hit records. The very documents meant to preserve studio musicians’ anonymity betrayed them.
Think about it. Every time you heard “Good Vibrations,” “River Deep – Mountain High,” the Righteous Brothers, Nancy Sinatra, or Sonny and Cher, you were hearing Carol Kaye. She composed the soundtrack of an entire generation’s youth.
And yet the records still say nothing. She’s now over eighty. She wrote instructional books. She trained countless bassists. She is finally starting to be recognized by music historians who uncovered the truth about The Wrecking Crew.
But she never got what she deserved: her name on those albums. Credit for the music that defined an era. Recognition that those bass lines everyone associates with the “Beach Boys” were, in fact, Carol Kaye’s.
Fifty-five dollars a session. Ten thousand sessions. The most-played track of the twentieth century.
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
blakekathryn
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
