Nov 3, 2025
The sun hurt me today. It is normal for sisters to hurt each other. Wanting to make sure they can see, they can feel warmth, that what is around them still bears life. Overbearing is an ever present danger.
seen from Slovenia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Finland
seen from China
seen from Finland
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Slovenia
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from Russia
seen from France
seen from Canada
The sun hurt me today. It is normal for sisters to hurt each other. Wanting to make sure they can see, they can feel warmth, that what is around them still bears life. Overbearing is an ever present danger.
Caretaking for Miss - Mornings
The miss isn't prone to wake
Heavy is the sleep that takes
You must do what you can, everything you can
You must understand, your plans are nothing to bands of ennui and melancholia
The miss is of ill temperament, every sunrise sacrament.
Restore her smile with ease and tranquility.
Stress in the morning ill begets nobility.
Whether it early or late, fate will find her.
Abate her her insolence.
Forgive her slothfulness.
Slow is the water that moves mountain.
Persisting is the heart unmet with contentment.
Please, ease the little star to light.
Make pleasant her coming to life.
Caretaking for Miss - midday
The princess fast tires of the wires she walks
Please make clear the royal agenda, and she will amend the worries of fief and foe.
Please do not fret if you are not met with her gaze.
Every subject glows the crown
Every word should lighten a frown.
The princess would like to know what you would ask of her plans
She will figure out where you stand.
Make warm her bed, and steady the stead.
Do not make dread of the return.
Caring for the miss - evenings
Invite her you must, and fright you may not just.
You may take her in moments of solace, for her own good.
You must entertain yourself when she does not, and you must train into a wealth of hearth.
You must forgive fanciful folly, and you must forgive dalliances and tolls on your heart.
You must foretell of pleasantry, and you must not forlorn her own.
She means what she says to the one at her side, it matters to her glide that you believe.
Believe in yourself, for all you can do.
Nurturing the glow is thanks first to you.
Please mind your miss.
Please mind, of miss.
it burns, doesn't it? halos aren't supposed to glow that color.
once they figured out how to ground angels, they realized the rotburn of guilt made us pretty light shows.
most of them don't even know that's why they feel compelled to tame and temper our divine inclinations
regardless of the claimant of your service, a pained soul would love to crack you open side by side and drain incandescent marrow from your guiding light until you can't see your own reflection anymore
no matter that they know, they will flavor you like a cheap furikake sprinkle onto shark fin soup
They're saying you were the best and brightest of us in the repitaphs.
They're moralwashing bygone ascetics to cannibalize your virtues for idolatry.
They're building revered statues that bear not your name nor likeness and yet glow with your blessings.
They're saying you were the best and brightest in the repitaphs.
They're ascribing your virtues to bygone ascetics to cannibalize your warmth.
They're building revered statues that share not your name or likeness yet glow only by your forgotten grace.
The dulling of an angel's halo need not be result of judgement.
You are what you eat is a common human maxim, but for angels to imbibe of the earth is for the Ideal to change. Blood affects the angel, angels affect of flesh. To drink blood is to twist the angelform human. It feels organs that don't exist, its wings darken reddish browns and grays. This isn't darkness. This is where the blood dries.
In the absence of battle to fight, all the mechs stood silent. It was as if there was no spirit for pilots to bond with in them after the war had left. Handler and hound lines blurred, as one another became their piloted bodies of metal. Without the world baring teeth, the hounds no longer needed vambrace of steel. The handlers no longer needed hearts of steel. They didn't all give it up, but they did turn on each other in a new way. Flesh given and taken for the sake of enrichment, not engagement.
The war was over, and a new battle for self beginning
Angel halo is only broken by that selfsame angel when it is no longer left selfsane.
An angel focused, not headless, may shape halo so that it becomes purely the instrument that the angel itself is. Sword pointed straight with one hand, I witnessed an angel with no halo shine. Blade of light turned to arrow as out of nothing but predestined design a bow fully formed of the same nauseatingly symmetrically oscillating sun I bore witness to. The angel was already poised in a sharpshooter's crouch, my mind too dazed by the formation of the weapon to register the flourish as if such a motion would even be allowed to my mortal eyes regardless. Before another breath of being could be drawn, the arrow flew true as truth itself could never hope to in a world of humans. Space seemed to warp around the arrow, leaving echoes of past and present overlaying the air along flight path as transparent reflection. The arrow was aimed at me. This is my obituary. It is only by the grace of Her transcendent surgical wrath that eyes of Earth may ever read these words. Goodbye.