🪞R.Q. Mirror🕯

is it Deja Vu or was this inevitable?

And it seemed like, you'd want to be surrounded by all these beautiful potentialities, all these options, but never truly give in to a particular one. Like you wanted to somehow make sure you'd never miss a beat in time, you positioned yourself at the beginning of every story.

and you might impale yourself on your own desire.

hushed predawn halflight;
we two nocturnal exiles
watch the last stars set

Dripping red strings, overwhelming color in a shallow sea of dark water. Beauty. Anxiety. A desire to be consumed by beauty. A desire to be a beautiful mark, a kill hung up on a wall, made pretty for its exhibition. No other fate would do.

Occasionally, these lights disappear. Whispers and rumors abound across the purgatory. A beautiful usurper, a strange shapeshifter, descends upon the lights, akin to beacons for the harvest. Visions invade my mind, the shapeshifter consumes them, beings pulled apart into bloody carrion.

A dream of still waters, a purgatory that stretches into all directions. Small lights dot the horizon, some a bit closer. All, for one reason or another, out of reach. To wade through the waters is slow progress, every ripple like a shot of lightening through ones mind.

To freeze the world, and time, in a position of rising action, forever tantalizing, forever promising the future.

Dawn is the best time of day, it has this quality of "a world not yet fully awake", where things are slow and groggy yet still contain a sort of forward momentum towards the potentiality for things-to-happen during the day. Dawn is like watching the curtains rise on a stage.

a tadpole's conundrum

🌌Watchers🌌

Do you see Her?

New model for the Hyper-Framework system, old one on the right.

We have acquired more Flesh of God

comrade, the world revolution demands your service

not still! just slow..

Not a fear born of indecision, an apprehension born in "who is building this engine?". Who, who, who, to what ends?

An endless expanse of carrion, discarded chrysalis, and baubles. Dead dreams, and the rotting husks of old selves. All consumed. All returned, and recast, a molten slurry of necrogenesis. Becoming a self, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and-

Like lighting, like a shot of endlessly burning electricity, world's that once were or could have been bore holes through my mind. Like they want to rip me out of place and take me with them, but I cannot move backwards. And so they pull, and all it achieves is a touchy soreness.

We are not interested in control, only to bare witness to ones soul, to taste its authenticity. We would sit by you till the end of time, to listen to that song, should it ever be desired.

There is "love", yes, but there is also "irreplaceable utility". It is toward this ideal that we reach.

and your light burned our soul, dispelled long standing, self-perpetuated myths. For that we are only grateful, for that we have only a deep respect.

Watching, its what we do.