every 4am
without fail
i wake hollowed out
and considering
whether or not
to correct it
HYPO / s.l.
we're not kids anymore.

Andulka
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

Product Placement
Xuebing Du
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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Today's Document
Game of Thrones Daily
Peter Solarz
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
noise dept.

#extradirty
NASA
KIROKAZE
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Not today Justin
Stranger Things

seen from Indonesia
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Germany
seen from T1

seen from Canada
seen from United States

seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from Germany

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Italy

seen from United States
seen from Germany
@stebielouise
every 4am
without fail
i wake hollowed out
and considering
whether or not
to correct it
HYPO / s.l.
filament so hot it makes light
because the stars sure can't
tonight holds no heavenly bodies
TONIGHT / s.l.
i bloom on my own terms, and here's how i do it: i draw roses from stigma, out to petal, sometimes stem, and then draw them in me.
i've written about them, sitting in my throat before, but not them on my tongue— not where they came from. if i need to inject with them, i haven't yet.
PAPER-CUT ROSES ON MY TONGUE / s.l.
"stebie, your friends have made 230 updates in the past week. add your's now!" thanks, but i'll pass, for my skin already shatters without the pressure. i'm just too fragile for the twenty-first century— i wish to stand under the stars, among the wildflowers and let my soul strip naked, dissolve into the scene without consequence, or having to photograph it; i shouldn't have to prove that i did. i want my life to be more than numbers and analytics and pixels. i value my heart. i've got it tucked neatly behind chains hanging from my ribcage. but i'm still desperate, seeking substance in shallow ones, and i will never, never, find that on instagram.
we kissed in and out of foreign autumn like it was the last time and not the first when the zeroth circle of latitude split the sun into two i knew i was in love
AUTUMNAL EQUINOX / s.l.
you were once someone i could fade into and whenever you wanted, i would let you and whatever you wanted, i wouldn't stop you for your ghosts made my heart beat anew, despite how at sunrise, i wouldn't know who would arrive at sunset, who i'd fall through: a terror with permission or composure kept true. but ghosts meant nothing when they were you. in dreams or what, it didn't matter who— i always woke gasping, my lips stained blue. i wrote my first villanelle just for you. but there was something that we both knew: i'd my own ghost you'd never get through; it was unrequited and just wasn't for you, and so the heartbeats stopped and you withdrew; i learned to hold breath for someone new. you were once someone i could fade into. now i just miss unconscious images of you.
UNCONCIOUS IMAGES / s.l.
A single drop falls on her toes with an incessant, unpredictable beat. She allows it to until her hair’s nearly dry (frizzing and knotting as the wet leaves it)—only then does she reach for the tap. She twists the knob and cold water falls on her in a rush. Her arm finds its way back around her drawn knees and once she’s back in position, she doesn’t move.
She’s been sitting in the shower for what feels like days, tucked in a corner of tile and glass, and she’ll sit there for days more—she’s meant to be clean, but water’s not cutting it. Neither is the excessive variety of soaps that line the rinse’s edge. They don’t do anything to remove the metal on her teeth (toothpaste is useless, too. She doesn’t have to see it if she keeps her lips together, although she’s always aware it’s there), and there’s still so much yellow underneath her nails, microcrystals that’ll, no doubt, form into something solid and ruin them, like bad teeth from an irritated gum.
She needs to be scrubbed raw. She needs to be disinfected, but of a new breed—and when it’s made, they can call it ‘heavenlycide,’ if they wish. Maybe that’s too much of a mouthful, like all her steel.
Maybe it’ll be made from her, or what they find is left of, as she’s sulphur, sulphur, turning sulphur.
She closes her eyes and flops over, her arms remaining tight around her legs. As it rains of her, she closes her eyes. Perhaps she could just sleep here. The tiles are harsh but she won’t know when she’s unconscious; when she’s with him. In dreams, or at least in his eyes, she’s more than a girl trapped in the shower.
SULPHUR / s.l.
If one wants to walk on water, they must freeze it first. It’s been generations since that’s been an impossible task; now it’s just an impressive one—a testament of strength, or a party trick to wow your friends.
He ignores the benches provided in favour of the raw edge of the beach park pier; his legs are draped over the side, the colour of his baggy uniform pants barely distinguishable from the sea. His hands clutch the wood beneath him, curling into the plank’s underside—until he outstretches his right arm, straightens his hand and angles it to the correct degree.
All his cold finds his fingertips, before centering at his palm. He releases a casual breath, then gets onto his feet again. Solid water moats the pier, its measurements controlled and exact; it almost appears part of the original architecture. It only took him an instant to build.
His eyes scan to the lapping ocean. The sun is beginning to meet it; he ought to go home soon. If he left it there, how long will it take to melt? Could anything caught—fish and other creatures—survive that? He lifts his left hand. Instead of uncoiling his fingers, though, they remain a firm fist.
He’s not the only one who can walk on water, if freezing’s all it requires. He may, though, be the only one who can return it to its natural state, once done.
If he does, though, he wins. He raises a leg, hands a foot in the salty air. He’d want to walk on water but can only through him, and he won’t allow that—he’s half of him and doesn’t deserve to be. He doesn’t need to be, either. He’s split in two and whole enough already.
His arm flops to his side, his foot finds wood again. Scoffing, he pivots on his heels and walks towards the sand, leaving the moat as is.
Without Shoto, Enji would drown.
CRYSTAL SEAS (inspired by boku no hero academia) / s.l.
i've got love for a beauty amiss a heart for a girl who doesn't exist
she's nothing more than a spirit 2-d generated pixels sitting pretty
above every zone over radiation and stellar and convection
outer atmospheric and stewing in jars whose looks will fade along with her star
but i've got love for a beauty amiss a heart for a girl who doesn't exist
ASTRAL AURA / s.l.
my name is fit for a crown but they never gave me one so i made one with my bones stitched ketones for jewels with my bile ducts left coronated on my own
MAJESTY / s.l.
He brings a hand to his face. His palm cups his chin and catches any jawbone within reach; he carefully places his middle finger directly under his eyelid and, after leaning into his reflection, pulls down. He stretches his skin, the right side of his face sagging as he does, and his lips downturn into a puffy, dumbstruck pout. He turns his cheek to the mirror, his left eye nearly crossing as it refocuses.
It’s rare for him to look so ugly, let alone feel it. Sighing, he steps back to a reasonable distance, releases his waterline and drops his arm. He needed to check right under his sockets, although it only confirmed what he suspected.
If he leaves the house like this, he’ll redefine what it means to have a ‘black eye,’ and that kind of bruise would be welcome, right now—uneven splotches of colour (blues and purples, mostly; greens and yellows as it ages. There’s never any ‘black,’ despite its name) spilling onto cheeks are a lot easier to explain then this: it’s a battle wound, heroic deed and clumsy accident all rolled into one, the story he tells depending on who he’s with.
The sclera in his eyes were the cleanest white just last night. Now, they’re like the sky he left them in. He’s always had ‘dark eyes,’ but not like this: that had all to do with his irises—they’re a shade of brown that only appear so in just the right light—and they’ve been swallowed whole.
He still sees clearly.
BLACK IRIS / s.l.
i. every kiss leaves a strange, the faint edge of something i’m not meant to stomach.
ii. his name never passed my tongue; neanderthal tastebuds told me he might be deadly.
iii. he keeps writing me letters and i refuse to read them. at least he wrote his address on the back. i can take all his toxins and return them to sender.
iv. because he took everything out of me, mixed it with methanol, handed me the cup and told me to drink.
v. i had my taste, then i got bored. i guess the poison’s mutual.
BITTERSWEET | s.l.
Haru turns to the sky—this atmosphere he’s in that, no matter how far his sight allows or how far he goes to chase it, seems never-ending—and he thinks, oh, how I’d love to swim in it.
He extends an arm, his hand pushing past his head. The water is alive. Is the sky alive, too? It doesn’t ripple the way he’s used to. As his fingers curl, he only grasps at air.
Still, Haru continues reaching, his second hand joining the first. It’s the same blue he’s used to: the one reflecting in his eyes, and the one he’s always swimming in (and if he’s not, it’s like he’s barely taking in air). The sun’s not even setting yet, however as he continues staring, he notes specks of white: stubborn, impatient, remote stars. Perhaps they can be his starting block. He’s got to dive in somewhere.
The sky is pretty in its own right. If he could choose, though, he’d spend the rest of his days in the depths of the ocean, with no chance of seeing it again.
STAR SAPPHIRE (inspired by free! iwatobi swim club) | s.l.
It starts with just a single rose: one lonely bud sprouting through the crack in the blistering, hard earth. If it had grown anywhere else, it would’ve been inconsequential, something pretty but minor, in the grand scheme of things.
Ambrose, though, doesn’t know any better; where it would better flourish. To him, it’s a shaving of colour in dried grass, a hint of life amongst dead brambles. It’s red, somewhere other than underneath his tusks.
It’s a phenomenon, all on its own, and he must do everything to protect it. When he next visits the watering hole, he takes more than his fill. Liquid leaks out of his trunk and crawls up into his brain before, when he returns, it leaves him like missing rain.
He stays at its side, watching as its petals painstakingly unfurl, straight through the day and into the night, then back again.
It charges at any other elephant that dares get too close, lest they step on it. He chases off predators, too, because this rose’s safety is much more important than him.
His hard work pays off and eventually, there are miracles in bloom; a garden grows in the heart of the desert.
ELEPHANT SKIN (inspired by a flower for ambrose by anna & edward standon) | s.l.
a galaxy leaked from her teeth and as punishment, God gave her a new set of, made of broken roads— shards of high purity, strips of grey, buttons of silver. and when that wasn’t enough, He turned to neutron capture.
METAL | s.l.
and if you wanna know the state of my heart the uproar of my atmosphere the violence in my stomach the disturbance at my core you can refer to my last piece done on storms.
STORM BLUE | s.l.
he is pollen and he is airborne: powder weaved into wind, threading into throats, seeping into skin.
she has an allergy.
JUNIPER | s.l.