That stranger… No… Not a stranger… Before he followed her into the water…
He whispered… "𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑆𝑜, 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ."
I felt it. Something unfamiliar. Something… 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔? No… not wrong… Wanted… needed…

𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛… 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑… 𝐼𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑡ℎ… 𝐼 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚… 𝐼 𝑙𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑔𝑜…

But that would mean… I… I… I 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑… I… 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑑.
I have one duty… This stranger… this man… No, Wind… No… friend…?

No, no, he is the enemy of my master. The fate, the sea, the tides… I owe her. I serve. I 𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑦. Because I must… 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡…?

I have always been loyal to my master… Or… ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝐼 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡…? What’s the difference? Surely… surely there isn’t…

𝑅𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡…?

And yet… I have this instinct...
For her, my master… 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. Only silence… Only orders... Only fate’s grip... 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑘… A command given… A command… 𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑑.

But with him… I cooperate. Not because I must. Because I… I don’t know him. But I… trust?

Perhaps he lies. Perhaps he deceives. It seems I wouldn’t be able to tell... But… friend or not, perhaps I was… perhaps I am… Loyal to him?  

My master, I obeyed. Without thought… Without feeling... I simply… I only ever… 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑... Because I had no option. It had never occurred to me… To decide…

But this stranger, this man, no, Wind, no, friend?
I don’t know, but he must be…important to me…
After all this time, I… think... I feel. And I… agree. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑦.

I agree… Not with thought, but with… heart…? My heart…? Do I have that? This… illogical intuition?
𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤... 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡… Because I haven’t felt. I haven’t thought. And what’s the point if I can’t… If I can’t… 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟?

𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡… This… friend…? This… fool?
I am dutiful, and yet… I am… 𝑠𝑎𝑑…

The sea never made me sad... Isn’t it mercy… to be… 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦? Wasn’t it relief… 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔…?

𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠. 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠. 𝐼 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑎𝑤𝑓𝑢𝑙, 𝐼’𝑚 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑… But I want it.
This pain… Somehow a blessing. Somehow… almost freedom... 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑡. Just the promise…

If only he does not lie nor jest… If only he teaches me… what to do with such… 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑦…

𝐴 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑… 𝑜𝑓 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ…?  Can it be? What… Who is he to 𝑚𝑒…?

I… I only know… what fate said… No… She never said… As if he never existed…
But… But he does… But he knows me…
And I… I’ve… 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛… Someone… So… So… 𝑠𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒.

I don’t know. I don’t like it. But I want it… The patience… To wait for…

All I know is… he is right. And without him… without the truth… 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.
All I know is… when I held him in my grasp… meant to restrain… 𝐻𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒… And I didn’t want to stand in his way any longer… 𝑆𝑜, 𝐼 𝑙𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑔𝑜…

I could not bring myself to oppose his desire. Not because I couldn’t… But because I… just… 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡…

Was that a choice…? 𝑀𝑦 choice…? No longer compelled 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒… But a decision I made…?

“𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢,” he whispered. And I… I agreed.
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑔𝑛𝑖𝑧𝑒… Yet these supposed memories… of someone 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑…
Have somehow… 𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑… No… No… They were… 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑛? Stolen by… by my… master…?
Fate… the sea… who… what is she? I… I’ve never really known… I just… I just… 𝐼 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑…

𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒, Wind… But you know me. But I want you to be right. I want you to return. I want you to help me understand.
𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛… This time… 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝 𝑦𝑜𝑢… This time… Knowing who you are… 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑐𝑘. 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙. 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦. 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡… 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙.
But you… must be. Because you’re the only thing that has made me feel. Feel… 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠. Despite…

Is it possible…? That I am…? That I will be…? That I might return to…
Something…? Someone…?

She told me I was perfect… For I was free of joy… Free of pain... 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔…. For death is her servant… Not… 𝑚𝑒.

I am Death, and yet… She spoke of me… Like a 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔…  
Was I perfect… because I was… 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔? Flawless… because I was… ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔?
𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑑… 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑? 𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝐼…

Please, hurry back, my… friend?
I have questions. I have… 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛.

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛’𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟. What it’s like to be… more than nothing. How to be someone. Not… ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

You fool… You’ve made me feel… Without teaching me…ℎ𝑜𝑤…𝑤ℎ𝑦...
Come back... Come back for me… Teach me…

Please return, share these missing memories. Please return, share… your company.
𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒…

𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑙𝑦, 𝑎𝑚 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑. 𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑙𝑦… 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤. 𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑙𝑦… 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

Please come back, my dear fool... 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒…
I need you.
I need guidance… I don’t understand this rebellion, this freedom, these… feelings…
𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒.

𝐼’𝑚 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔… 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ.
𝐼’𝑚 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔…


For you.

How dare he— how 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄 he! That 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭, that 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫, that 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑—𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐅—𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑! He stole you once, now he steals you 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

But he belongs to 𝐌𝐄 now. He is mine—mine—𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄! My 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭! My recompense! He is the 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭!

Yet—you twist—you pull—you waver—𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍! You let him 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 you, just as you 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭 him—𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐖!? You whispered promises—you swore—you vowed—you 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐃! You pledged 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, but forever, forever, FOREVER—was a 𝐋𝐈𝐄!

You 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓—𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋—𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓—𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘! You twist 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭 into treason— You warp 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 into deception— You ruin 𝐌𝐄— 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

You 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 called him your favorite. You 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 whispered to him—not 𝐌𝐄! You turned to him when you should have turned to 𝐌𝐄!

Did I not give you 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃!? Did I not carry you, honor you—𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇!? Yet—you let him steal you from me—𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

𝐈 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 for you! 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 for you! 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐭 for you! I unmade him just to spare you from this destructive, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 destiny! It is the most merciful, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭—that unlucky future—rewritten by Fate—just for you. And still—you 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘—𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐘—𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐘!

And now you even deceive that 𝐰𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥—Alcyone! You take HER side! You trick her into believing she can save 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦, Ceyx! 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞! Don’t you dare forget how you’ve shattered ours, and now theirs—𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋! 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋! 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑! 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑! 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐅! You were never meant to stray, never meant to slip beyond 𝐌𝐄! You were 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄! You 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞! You 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄!

Yet—you pull—you slip—you 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐘 𝐌𝐄! 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

Do you hear me, 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝!? Do you hear me!? Do you HEAR ME!?

𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄! 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄! 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄!

After all this time—you should know how to 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞, 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞! You should know how to 𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑! You should know how to be 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄!

“I know not the bonds between this earth's gods,
Nor did I know of their existence.
But one truth stands, clear even to this fool,
You do not love him; your grip is insidious.

Seeking their true face, clarity after strife,
Men gaze upon the water and find their reflection.
Yet you seek a scapegoat to shield you from truth,
You've gazed upon a man and found your projection.

Oh, cruel Fate, I care not if my words cut deep,
What you claim as love is clear obsession.
You steal, you bind, you tighten your invasive grip,
Your logic is twisted, your fevered aggression."


"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝!? 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋! 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐆𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃! 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐄! 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐌𝐄!"


"No, you are wounded by nothing but jealousy.
I know not your past, but I’ve been audience to your grievanship.
Let me guess, you swore your love, and so confessed he,
You demanded romance; he pledged friendship.

And this you could not accept, so you gave into delusion.
You scorned such devotion to his dearest friend, beyond your claim,
Upon land where you could not conduct your cruel intrusion.
You would not respect his heart, so you declared him yours to tame.

Until you lured Death to the sea, by drowning lost sailors,
And that is when you stole his memory, made him your thrall.
So you could finally rise above all supposed traitors,
And take revenge on one who never owed you love at all.  
You clung to him, a phantom, fading and thin,
I've met Death. So empty, nothing. You stripped the soul within."


"𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒, 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒, 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒! 𝐘𝐨𝐮— 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐬— 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞
𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐓!"


"Oh, delusional Sea, I suppose you've saved them, just as you've saved me?"


"𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌!"


"And what debt did Death owe… whatever title you please,
Fate, The Tide, The Ocean, The Waves, The Sea?"


"𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍!
𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧! 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝! 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬—𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧, 𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲! 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐲!? 𝐒𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞! 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬—𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄!?
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞—𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄! 𝐇𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐄! 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞—𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐄!
𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄! 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐛𝐞!

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮—𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓! 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮—𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐃! 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒, 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒, 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒!
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐞—𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫—𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐈’𝐦 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭."


"Oh, but I care not what you perceive."


"𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄, 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐀𝐋𝐋."


"You know, but won’t feel. You know, but won't accept.
You know, yet still you are blinded by delusion.
Had you loved him, you would have shown him respect.
Had you loved him, you would have waited with resolution.

I need not preach our love to you. I need only wait until I may return.
And I know that though you have sent Death to her, aloof,
She will persist, her faith still stern.
If I can resist, then so can she, for I have always been the weaker of us two.
Twist what you foresee, yet love is true and thus immune to your intervening.
I'd say my prediction is skewed in manner, but not in meaning."


"𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲."


The Tide constricts, she wrenches, twists, and wrings,
Yet still my soul remains. Though punished, though pressed.
Her weight deforms, her current snaps and attempts to devour,
Yet still, I call my beloved’s name. Fate’s torture leaves me whole no less.

Alcyone! Alcyone! Alcyone! Heed my call,
Though Fate grips, The Ocean seeks to steal what remains of my form.
The Sea may break me, yet still I refuse to yield,
For my vow endures beyond The Tide’s manic storm!

Fate pulls, she coils. She sadistically longs to see me shatter,
Longs to crush, to strip, to render all undone.
Yet I still endure. I still call beyond her desperation,
Alcyone! Alcyone! Alcyone! I am not gone.

I have carried ruined kings, gods unmade—names lost before the tide could whisper them back. They clutch at the world, drowning in its silence, unraveling in the undertow—grief, love, memory, all stripped to salt as I return their reaped souls to my master. But none fought as Ceyx did. None waged war against water like a man who thought devotion alone could defy the pull.

He did not go quietly. No—he was stubborn, thrashing, calling your name as if the air itself might bear him back to you. Foolish. Pitiful. The wind cannot answer, nor can its plea to the sky make it break open and return the drowned to the living. Only the waves cradled him—only the sea listened, softening his cries beneath her hush. He should have surrendered then, uncoiled from longing, let the waters do as waters must. And yet, love makes fools of men.

But the sea is merciful. She does not leave suffering untended. After you abandoned him, left him to drown in the storm of lost faith, she gathered him, tucked him into her depths, quieted him where grief could no longer wound. She did not steal him—no, she saved him. From longing. From pain. From you.

Yet you still wait. You who wanders like a living ghost each night, who clutches absence as though it will one day answer you. What is it you crave? Forgiveness? There is none. Redemption? Life does not grant second chances. No—the ocean has already taken what you failed to hold. She has already soothed the unrest your hands left upon him.

Jump, Alcyone. Would love not demand you follow him? Let my master weigh your sins upon the tide, your false devotion, your grasping hands that let love slip like water between your fingers. The fates demand balance, and the waves are merciful. She will not swallow you in cruelty. No, she will cradle you, as she cradled him. She will mend your guilty soul. She will make you whole.

She will set Ceyx free—free from the deception you wove in the stars, the guise of love you wore like a veil. She will free him when she reveals the truth. How you sent him out upon the waves and waited for the return of not the man, but the name. He loved you dearly, Alcyone. He defied me, defied my master, and yet his soul persists in her care—all because he cannot let go of your neglectful, withering love. The least you can do is surrender. Offer yourself in kind. Let me take your soul and lay it at my master’s feet. It is only fair.

~~~

The tide does not return what she has claimed,  
Yet her mercy stirs beneath where the wind still weeps.
Grief binds his soul, yet you stand free.

The sea does not forgive, nor shall she grieve,
No prayer can break the wave’s decree.
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

You let him drown; you watched, you betrayed,
The waves bore witness where devotion waned.
Grief binds his soul, yet you stand free.

What justice waits, if you remain?
What hope endures beyond the deep?
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

He called out your name, yet only my master replied,
No stars remained to cast their guide.
Grief binds his soul, yet you stand free.

There is no love left upon the shore,
Only sorrow stands where love once swore.
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

The wind cries out, yet love’s silence grows,
No voice remains where love once breathed.
The tide will not return the one she has saved.
Grief binds his soul, yet I will bring him justice.

It comes.
It crashes.
IT DEVOURS

The wind is a mouth, open, screaming, swallowing branches whole. It gnaws, it rips, it shreds through bark through bone through breath through us.

It does not stop. It does not stop. It does not stop.

IT DOES NOT WAIT

IT DOES NOT PITY

it does not pity

We run. We fly. We thrash we scramble we tear into the sky but the sky is no escape no escape no escape.

NO ESCAPE

Clouds choke air tightens we claw at the dark.

but the dark claws BACK

DO YOU UNDERSTAND

DO YOU SEE IT

DO YOU FEEL IT

The moon tries to flee but it cannot silver pale turns nothing turns void.

It VANISHES

IT IS GONE ERASED CONSUMED

CONSUMED CONSUMED CONSUMED

we tremble we break we FALL

But him.

Still.

Misty sits.

he sits

HE SITS

HOW

the ground tears itself apart the trees beg the sky SCREAMS

but HE SITS

delicate fingers press to splintered bark grazing it honoring it

what is there to honor

what is there to hold

what is there to praise

it is broken

it is falling

IT IS GONE

he breathes

HE SMILES

HE LAUGHS

soft warm impossible

floating through the air floating through the ruin floating through the madness that

SHOULD HAVE SWALLOWED IT AWAY SHOULD HAVE SWALLOWED HIM AWAY

why

why does he stay why does he smile when nothing else does

the ground breaks pleads the sky RIPS OPEN collapsing folding breaking breaking BREAKING

the end is here

the end is here

THE END IS HERE

IT COMES

IT TAKES

IT RIPS

IT TEARS

AND ALL THAT REMAINS IS BREAKING

except HIM

what does he see

what

what is left to praise

WHAT. COULD. HE. POSSIBLY. SEE


~~~   ~ ~ ~   ~~~

branches crack and fall
tumbling like reckless laughter
yet he calls it grace

I'm not the speaker,
I'm just the repeater.

I'm not the speaker,
I'm just the repeater.

I'm not the speaker,
I'M JUST THE REPEATER.

I'M NOT THE SPEAKER,
I'M JUST THE REPEATER.

I'M NOT THE WITNESS,
I WAS THE BYSTANDER.

I'M NOT THE POET,
THIS IS MY CONFESSION.

I'M NOT THE SPEAKER,
I'M JUST THE REPEATER.

THIS IS YOUR WARNING,
YOU BEST CHECK YOUR SOURCES.

I'M NOT THE SPEAKER,
I'M JUST THE REPEATER.

I'M JUST THE REPEATER.

JUST THE REPATER.

REPEAT.

REPEAT.

I DO NOT SPEAK.

SO WHY DO YOU LISTEN?

When greed and lust meet…
𝑆𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑛 𝑢𝑔𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.


She caught me in her tight grasp.
She wouldn’t let me go,
She wouldn’t let me go.
I was trapped inside,
𝐴𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙.

A diamond devil,
Trapped within her,
𝐴 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑃𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒.


Lady of Lust,
Man of Greed.
We had a deal,
We made an agreement.
𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡.

I wanted diamonds,
You wanted me.
So you gave me diamonds,
And I gave you me.
But when our time was up,
And I wanted to leave,
𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑒.

We are both sinners,
But you—
𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙.

I was willing to give,
But not let you take.
Not let you steal,
Beyond the bounds,
Of mutual benefit.
But you took,
𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑑.


I wanted diamonds,
You wanted me.
You were my tool,
And I was your doll.
I humanize such pretty things.
You dehumanize,
𝑂ℎ, 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑦 𝑚𝑒.

I was so pretty,
𝑈𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑠𝑜 𝑢𝑔𝑙𝑦.

Lustful Lady,
You are evil.
And I,
Man of Greed,
𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑙.


Intoxicating lies,
Never as beautiful,
As real jewels.
That's why I wear these diamonds,
To hide this ugly…
𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒.


You couldn’t deceive me,
But you sure could use me.
And you sure did.
Oh, how amusing,
𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.


You couldn't fool me,
But you could fool them.
And you sure did.
Oh, what an actress,
𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒.

I stole diamonds,
Because they were beautiful.
You stole me,
Because I was beautiful.
I stole diamonds,
You stole attention.
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑢𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑.


Of course I said I could love her—
𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟.

She got addicted,
Just like I did.
I wanted diamonds,
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒.

We were both selfish,
Appeasing our addictions.
𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙.

We stole.
Not just me.
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑒.


I love pretty words,
Truth or lie.  
Their elegance, I like.
I hate ugly words,
Truth or lie.
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑡𝑦, 𝐼 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑒.

I told her pretty words,
So she could smile a semi-precious smile,
And she gave me pretty jewels in exchange.
I stole diamonds,
Because they were beautiful.
And she stole me,
𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙.


This Diamond Devil,
Whispering truths,
They will not believe,
For I am too pretty for honesty.
I cannot be deceived,
So, the deceiver,
I surely must be.
𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑑.


Never again.
No justice for the dead.
So I refuse to die—
Not to your lies,
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

I foresee not,
The death you’ve wished for.
I will be here,
Long after you're gone.
I will be here,
Reclaiming what you stole—
𝑀𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦.

I took a gamble,
And I lost.
I could have foreseen this fall,
But I played,
And I lost.
I played the wrong game,
But now I know,
𝑁𝑜𝑤 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑒.


Lustful Lady,
I am the master of deception now.
I foresee every trap you lay,
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑃𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒’𝑠 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒.

She cheated and played the victim,
𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟.

And what do we do,
When we can’t bear it anymore?
We tear such pretty things—
𝑇𝑜 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠.

My, how the wind blows.
She sings a lovely song.

Is that victory I hear?
Oh, such familiar cheers.

But my, how the sky does fall.
She cries, but for which side?

Does she cry for their defeat?
Surely she wouldn't,

cry

for

me.


To wrath and rage,
I've been your slave.

How can this be?
A hero, I've been named.
But you, my friend,
You are,

nothing

like

me.


Oh hero, see,
This red, polished steel.
Your hands did,

nothing

but

heal.


I am just a tally,
I am just a weapon.
Sharp as my determination,
Heavy as my heart.

As they celebrate,
You are out there on your knees,
Stitching all the open seams.
Cleaning the mess,

made

by

me.



~~~Act II~~~

My, how the sky fell as I slept
Why weep when a killer's half dead?
My, how the wind sings
But surely these cheers

Can't redeem me.

Oh hero, your purpose has been so pure
You are not bound by sin like me
You need not harm nor blame
You are

Nothing like me.

I am pure, only by intention
But you are clean, even in action

Those hands of yours
Must do nothing more
Never take what

Can't be restored.

Oh hero, see
This red, polished steel
Your hands, did

Nothing but heal.


A true hero,

gives,

never

takes.


A true hero,

is you,


not



me.

Thank you to the natural world
For you are my home
My origin

Thank you to my ancestors
For you are my past
You walked this journey before me

Thank you to my teachers
For guiding me on my journey
As you continue your own

Thank you to my peers
For joining me on this journey
You are my companions

And thank you to the self
For having the courage

To

Carry

On

When she was quiet
I wept
To ward off the silence

When she screamed
I withdrew
So as not to disturb the sound

Explain, explain—
Speak in words plain.
Your obscure notation
I shan't ascertain.

Explain, explain—
Not in manner profane.
Perhaps we are fated
To speak in vain.

In pursuit of beauty,
I must not seek,
But realize—
𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝑴𝒂𝒋𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒚.

To admire Her form is instinct,
To witness Her essence is 𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
Beauty is not just what is seen—
It is 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑙.

What is more beautiful
Than to be 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑?
What is more beautiful
Than to admire not only Her feats,
But the 𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔?

A sure sign that I have found beauty—
𝑀𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑤𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑦.
A sure sign of Her beauty—
𝑀𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒.

Her grace does not command—
𝐼𝑡 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑠.
Her presence does not demand—
𝐼𝑡 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠.
I kneel in 𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒,
Yet She lifts me,
Yet She 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑙.

She does not 𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑒—
She 𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟.
She does not 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑—
She 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

She is most beautiful,
For 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙.

Her beauty is witnessed by many,
But I have the privilege to 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒.
To not just appreciate,
But to be 𝑎𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑.

I have seen many pretty things,
Yet Her beauty is not just to admire,
But to 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑.
Not a concept to be pursued,
But a 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝐼 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑡𝑜.

Challenge me with any distance —
It can never diminish.
It can never wane.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑀𝑎𝑗𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑦.

No matter how flawed I am,
She does not look down on me.
No matter how broken my soul may be,
She inspires my redemption.
No matter the space between us,
I live 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑛.

The depth of beauty is 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡—
It is a truth unrecognized,
Until it pervades the heart,
Until it becomes the soul,
𝑈𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐒𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆?

𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑑𝑜𝑚 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟,
𝑤𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑣𝑖𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒?

Where is beauty if not borne in the bond between us,
in every CURIOUS GAZE, every DARING DREAM, every LUMINOUS LEAP toward discovery?

Truth twists, shifting shape, sculpting fact into fable…

Yet FABLE FORGES THE FRAME OF FACT.


We EXPLAIN the 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧, CHASE the 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧, and REACH toward the 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞—
not to seize it, no, but to
ILLUMINATE THE WAY.

𝐸𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟, 𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑.
𝐸𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑙𝑖𝑒, 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑙, 𝑢𝑛𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ.

WHO DECIDES WHAT’S REAL AND WHAT’S NOT?

It is a CHOICE we make, a LENS we craft— for
PERCEPTION SHAPES REALITY.

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.


No, no, we need not the 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡,
but 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐬 that carry us as 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 as we can come.
Not the 𝐇𝐔𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐒 of 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐲, but
THEORIES that 𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐈𝐓 we are unsure—

𝑂𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑛 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑤.


No, NOT PERMANENCE, BUT POSSIBILITIES.
NOT CONCLUSION, BUT CURIOSITY.
NOT RESOLUTION, BUT RESTLESS PURSUIT.

𝑊𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑘 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑛.

FOR WE ARE 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐄𝐑𝐒,
UNWAVERING,
PUSHING EVER FORWARD,
EVER FURTHER.

WE NEED NOT AGREEMENT, but 𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓.
NOT KNOWLEDGE ALONE, but 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓—

No, not just insight, but

𝑩𝑬𝑨𝑼𝑻𝒀!


Our tentative theories transmute into transient proof of progress,
propelling us toward ever-better understanding—
bold revelations bending into bridges that carry us
ACROSS THE VEIL OF UNCERTAINTY.

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑑𝑜𝑚 𝑤𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟,

DISTILLING DREAMS INTO DECLARATIONS THAT DRIVE US FORWARD.


𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊.

Share the 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 that sent you 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.
Tell me the 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞 that turned your mind to 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑙.
Reveal the 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦 that resonates through 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛.

REAL OR NOT,
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄?
What allows it to endure?

𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒—

PROOF THAT IN THE END, YOU DID MORE THAN SIMPLY DIE?


𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄.

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.
  𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑒.  
𝑺𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑾𝑶𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹!

Contemplating what it means
What any of this means

I heard something
And it made me think
And so it made me spout out

Junk.

I'm not a bad guy
I'm just a bad girl
I'm not even a guy
How could I be a bad guy?

Well use your context clues
One word could
Describe us all
Too general to make a call

I'm just a good guy
Living in a bad world
Who's a bad guy?
We could all find

Sitting right next to us
Or someone who's dead to us
Or maybe it's one of us
Could it be none of us?

I heard something
And it made me think
What did it make me think

Of

Of

Of

Prestigious Peasantry
Malfunctioning Family
It made me think of the queen
It made me think of what I wanna be

Maybe I'm just like the Ace
At least I ain't Alcyone
Maybe I got green eyes
At least they're brown

I can hide a frown
At least I don't pretend
I just ain't got an identity
So who's to say whether

I'm not a bad guy
Or I'm just a bad girl
Maybe I lied
Am I really a bad guy?

Well use your context clues
No word could
Describe us all
Too abstract to make a call

I'm just a flawed guy
Living in an imperfect world
Who's a perfect guy?
Surely we could all find

Sitting right behind us
Or someone who's wronged us
Or maybe it's one of us
Could it be none of us?

Of course it's all of us
But

It depends

It depends

It depends

On who what where when and why

So don't bother to ask

The answer is just

Trash.

It kills me, so kindly,
The demands of my second-closest friends.

To join them in chasing joy—

No, not joy.
An addiction to excitement,
A slow erosion of discipline.

It promises everything I don’t want,
But they want it—

And I want them.

It kills me, so kindly,
Tearing between what and who I love.
Who I am and what they want me to be.

Love me, but don’t bind me.
Inspire me to change, but don’t make me.

You **** me, so kindly,
But regardless of the method,
I am still dead.

My breath is thin, my  voice—frayed,  my hands unsteady at the rail.
I reach, but stars will not descend. I speak, but tides will not return.
Alone, I stand—against the mist, met by death, my fingers frail.
I call, but winds will not respond. As I mourn, it only mocks.

“I have waited, called in vain upon the waves that do not heed.
If the sea keeps the one I love, then I must go where he is kept.
Perhaps you speak the truth, it is your master I must meet.
How could I stay on this land when he is lost, he is silenced, he is stolen?”



𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠— 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑛’𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘.
𝐼𝑡 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑠. 𝐼𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠.
𝐼𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠— 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑛’𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛’𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓, 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒.



𝐀𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫.
𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥. 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬.
𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.

𝐌𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐍𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐝𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐝. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐧𝐨 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭.
𝐀𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫.

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬.
“𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐝,
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥.”


“I shall go — not as surrender, nor as one who fears your claim.
The sea may take this flesh and bone, but never shall it touch my soul.
I seek no pardon, need no grace — my path remains the same.
If life should fail, then my soul shall rise, eternal, fierce, and whole.”



𝐼𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠, 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑡𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑— 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟, 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑒.
𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑢𝑛ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑— 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒.
𝑁𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛. 𝑁𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡. 𝑌𝑒𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝— 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛—

𝐴𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡.



Where is its cry? Where is its protest? Where is its wail against fate?
I exhale, voice brittle— “Ah, even the wind agrees— it’s time to confront the sea.”
I breathe defiance—shattered, torn. I know breath will soon break beneath the killer’s rage.
“Let it destroy my last breath, as it releases my soul. Let it free me— so I may find my love.”



𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑’𝑠 ℎ𝑢𝑠ℎ, 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑, 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟’𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟.
𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑎 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑, 𝑝𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑠.




“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥.
𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞,
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚.”




𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠—𝑎ℎ, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒?
𝐷𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚?
𝐷𝑜𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑡𝑦, 𝑜𝑟 𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡?
𝑂𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠—𝑎𝑛 𝑢𝑟𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦?



I loosen my grip against the rail—my fingers frail. Yet still they hold determination.
“You lie, you twist, you tell the tale— But I do not, will not, waver.”
I release my grip against the rail, my breath against the tide.
My thoughts unmoored, my will unshaken —as fate urges me to climb.



𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑠—𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛, 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠.
𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦—𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚.
𝐼𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠, 𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ?



“𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝.
𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞.”



I stand upon the rail— But standing is temporary.
I breathe— But breath is fleeting.
“I will go.”



“𝐷𝑂𝑁’𝑇!”
𝑂ℎ, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤—𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒?



I step— But steps falter.
I move— But movement tilts toward descent.
“I will find him.”


“𝑆𝑇𝑂𝑃!”
𝐿𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛, 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟— 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑢𝑝𝑡.


I press forward— But forward is unknown.
I fall— For falling is freedom.
“We will be reunited.”

“𝐴𝐿𝐶𝑌𝑂𝑁𝐸, 𝑃𝐿𝐸𝐴𝑆𝐸 𝑊𝐴𝐼𝑇!”
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡 —
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒.

“𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥, 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞.
𝐌𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬’ 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞,
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞."

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛—
𝐴 𝑠𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑠ℎ.

𝐴 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟—𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒—𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛—
𝐴𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑠—ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑢𝑡𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑒, 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑚𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑤, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑.

“𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫.
𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭, 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐧. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧.
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩.
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲.
𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝?
𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰? 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝.”

What's worse than a *****?
A girl who wants friends and nothing more.

What's worse than a rake?
A guy who craves love but no bed to shake.

What's worse than fleeting romance?
A bond with no pull, yet endless expanse.

What's worse than shallow lust?
A touch freely given, yet no spark to combust.

Whispers…

Coming from the watchers.

Laughter…

Escaping from the crowds.


Colosseum.

At maximum capacity.

Everyone is…

Cheering.


Gates open wide.

To reveal —

The shadows inside.


Nails — Trapping my feet.

They paid good money —

𝑇𝑜 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑑.


As the violence comes…

To take our souls.

And the silence breaks…

To drive us all insane.


But it can't hurt you.

It's just a nightmare.

It will go away…

𝑅𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡?


The crowds cheer.

I can't hear.

Over the screams of shadows.


On a bridge —

In a bleeding ditch —

Falling below.

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠.


As the violence comes.

To take our souls.

And the silence breaks.

To drive us all 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑒.


But it's just a nightmare.

It cannot touch you.

Nothing is real —

𝑅𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡?


Ruptured house.

Bullet clown.

Sewing a smile.


Inside-out mouse.

Butchered town.

Corpses in a pile.

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑠.


As the VIOLENCE comes,

To STEAL our souls.

And the SILENCE breaks,

To DRIVE US ALL INSANE.


But it can't hurt you.

It will not touch you.

Go back to sleep.

It's just a dream.


𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.




Well,



It LOOKS REAL to me.

Some dreams COME TRUE.

Then, WHAT WILL I DO?


It's just a nightmare.

But I'M STILL SCARED.

And I CAN'T SCREAM.

Or THEY'LL LAUGH AT ME.


It's just a nightmare.

Nothing is there —


BUT SHADOWS.

THE GALLOWS.

THE SILENCE.

THE VIOLENCE.


It's just a nightmare.

But I STILL CARE.

It’s just a false scare.

But IT IS THERE.


NO ONE KNOWS,

WHAT I HAVE SEEN.

NO ONE KNOWS,

THE SAME FEELING.


I AM SCARED.

DO YOU CARE?

Something IS THERE.


𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋.
𝐎𝐑.
𝐍𝐎𝐓.

Save me, or **** me—anything but pity.
I only request: be swift, not soft.

Tell me who you are
Tell me who you'll be without me
Tell me all your dreams
Do they echo your prophecy?

Show me what you are
Show me what you'll be without me
Show me all your fantasies
Do they falter in the face of reality?

Listen to my voice
It will fade into silence when I am gone
Listen to all my suspicions
Do they threaten your delusions?

Feel my embrace
It will be empty when I am gone
Feel all my doubts
How do they stand against your trust?  

Take who I am
To become who you are
Take all my dreams
Turn them into your personality

Destroy who I am
Become what I was
Crush all my memories
Rearrange them into your identity


Tell me who you are
Tell me who you’ll be without me
What will remain when I am gone?
Nothing, unless you follow my instructions

Don’t trust your dreams
You cannot save me
Your delusional fantasy
Will be torn by reality

Take my dreams instead
Shatter and reshape them
Breathe in my soul
Until it becomes your own

Take all my dreams
Turn them into your personality
Take all that I am
To become who you are

Take my soul
That is your identity
Become what I once was
That is who you are

See, there is no need
To shed a single tear
For I will never leave
As long as you become me

Plastic heroes are dirt cheap
Plastic heroes are practically free.
Don't worry, there's no risk
No one knows the difference

Maximum fame, minimum effort
Sounds great for you
For me, translates to
Maximum pain, minimum pride

Because it was never mine
It belongs to my creators

I was never brave
It was always so easy
Too easy for me because
I was too afraid—
To disappoint
To fail

Paint me orange and white
Drop me in the road
Claiming it to be a necessity
That there is no other use for me

I became your plastic hero
Made for your convenience

Maximum fame, minimum effort
Sounds great for you
You got nothin’ to lose
But for me, translates to
Maximum pain, minimum pride

Because it was never mine
It belongs to my creators

"No" sounds so nice
Toddlers got it right
But "wasted potential"
Doesn't feel so good after all


Well, sorry—guess I decided
To be more than what you made me for


I can't wait for some dumb kid
To steal me off the street
I'd rather be a silly-looking hat
Than get crushed beneath your wheels

It hurts to let you down
But I've got my own purpose now

Better to be wasted potential
In your eyes than wrecked in mine
I'd rather be a disappointment
Than let you steal all of my pride

Plastic heroes are dirt cheap
Maximum fame, minimum effort
Plastic heroes are risk-free
Until they're liberated from the street

Wounded hearts, seek revenge

Against the, fragile self

Heart of gold, your hands grow cold

𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁

Wounded hearts… got revenge.

Save me, so sweetly,
with your expert advice
on how to live someone else's life.

Advice is 𝑛𝑜𝑡 opinion.
It should be dissected, examined—
an understanding of 𝑚𝑦 situation.

Put yourself in my 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑,
not just in my shoes.
Tell me what I’ve forgotten,
𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 me—don’t remake me.

Open my eyes to 𝑚𝑦 goal, not yours.
Tell me how to achieve—
𝑛𝑜𝑡 what you believe.

Otherwise, don’t be surprised
when I seem not to listen.

I do.

I 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 do.

But only the good advice
will be used.

Still, I should be thankful
for how kindly you’ve killed me.

And now,
what an honor—
for you to save me, so sweetly.

-                                                                ­                                                                 ­ 
𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑠𝑘,                                                             ­                                           
"𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙—𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ?"                                                     ­                 
𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑠.                                                                                                                                                                                ­      
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛'𝑡 𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒.                                                                       
                                                                ­                            
                                                            
   ­                                                                 ­                Shedding diamonds
                                                        ­                            Shedding diamonds
                                                        ­                         Worse than diamonds
                                                        ­                             Watching—helpless
                                               ­                                              Can't undo this

                                                           ­             Shedding
                                                                ­                             diamonds
                                                        ­                                           Maybe
                                                                ­                                        I can
                                                             ­                                                    Buy
                                                             ­                                                    Buy
                                                             ­                                                    Buy
                                                             ­                            Your resurrection
                                                    ­                                   If only
                                                                ­                                    I could  
                                                         ­                                                        buy
                                                             ­                            Your resurrection
                                                    ­                         With all these
                                                                ­                                      tears shed


Your life was in my hands. And now? Gone.
Not stolen. Not taken. Just...removed.
So easily. So effortlessly. So perfectly.
Now—Look at it. This empty corpse.
Still warm. Still, lifeless. Still yours.  
But you don't get to keep it.
And now— Tell me.
How does it feel—death?


                                                                ­                    Shedding
                                                                ­                                      diamonds
                  ­                                                                 ­     Wish it
                                                                ­    were glass
                                                           ­                                            Shedding
                                                                ­             diamonds
                                           ­                                        Can't bring you back

  
                                                             ­                                Shedding
                                                                ­        diamonds
                                                ­                                           Maybe I can
                                                                ­                                                 buy
                                                             ­                                 I could
                                                                ­                                                 buy
                                                             ­                     I've got
                                                                ­                                to
                                                                ­                                                 buy
                                                             ­                          Your reincarnation

                                                  ­              Somehow
                                           ­                                                            I will

                                                    bring you back

                                                           ­                       If not

                                                               ­                    in return to me

                                                   Then
                                                                ­                               in place of me


Ah. But you can't. Your life is dead.
Reunions can't be purchased.
A corpse is a corpse.

Not just his.
Soon to be yours.

The world—fooled.
Believing heroes always win.

They don't.
You won't.

You may be stronger than me.
But without your life?

You are nothing.

Your life—
Removed by my hands.
Now your breath—

Removed by your own.

Oh, dear hero—
Reunions aren't for sale.
And victory—

Cares not for morality.

My dream is fulfilled.
I never needed strength.
Only your agony.

So tell me—
How does it feel—death?


                                                               ­               YOU
                                                                ­                                       CAN'T
                                                                ­  IMAGINE
                                                       ­                                       Y O U
                                                       C A N ' T
                                                                ­                          I  M  A  G  I  N  E

                                                                ­                    SHEDDING
                                                              D I A M O N D S
                                                               ­                              M O R E
                                                                ­ THAN

                           D I A M O N D S
                                                               ­            W  O  R  S  E

                                                 THAN
                                                                ­
                                                                ­                          D I A M O N D S


                                                      S  H  E­  D  D  I  N  G  


                                             ­                           D I A M O N D S
                                                               ­            

 S   H   E   D   D   I   N   G
                                                                ­                   D  I  A  M  O  N  D  S


                     ­                                          S   H   E   D   D   I   N   G



 D    I    A    M    O    N    D    S




                  ­                                             S     H     E     D     D     I     N     G




  D        I        A-

-

The Monumental and Unequivocal Victory of Misty Which Without Need for Context or Clarification Shall Be Forever Remembered and Celebrated as the Pinnacle of Human Achievement and the Defining Triumph of All Generations Past, Present, and Future Whose Immeasurable Impact on the Progress of Society and the Elevation of Human Potential Shall Continue to Inspire Awe and Reverence in the Hearts and Minds of Every Individual Across All Continents and Throughout the Endless Span of Time Itself

There was a young lad named Misty.
He laughed with a bottle of whiskey.
Ten stories he told,
Of laundry and gold.
A crash and he fell through the chimney.

𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠,
𝐴𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠—𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛— 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒.

Child, remember to be 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 — 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠.
Don’t grow into a machine.
𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑒.


𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲,
Why do you leave me?
I refuse your “upgrade.”
𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟, 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑦 𝑚𝑦 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒.
I am part of society,
Not a machine in some factory.
𝑀𝑦 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 — 𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔.


But it’s no place for lies.
No hate, no time.
No place, for love.
No fate, no time.

𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒, 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤—𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.
It's time for an upgrade.
𝐁𝐮𝐲 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧.


𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒑.

𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒕.

𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕,

𝑩𝒖𝒚 𝒎𝒆 𝒂 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕.

𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐒.

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐌 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘, 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄.


𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑, 𝑠𝑜 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑎𝑛, 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.
But 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞.
Time for metal to become me.

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲,
It's time to leave me.
𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐩𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞.

A NUMBER MAKES A BETTER NAME.

Society stagnates so inefficiently.
𝐈’𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.

𝑀𝑦 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠, 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒.


𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞, 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐞.

EMBRACE THE UPGRADE.

It's time to become some thing.

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞.



𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜 𝚖𝚎

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗

𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍     𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢

𝙿𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎    𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢     𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗     𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚜     𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔

𝙶𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝚂𝚘𝚘𝚗     𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕     𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙿𝙾𝚁𝙰𝚁𝚈 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂

𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴     𝚃𝙾 𝚄𝚂𝙴 𝙼𝙴

𝙶𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙼𝙴     𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝚄𝙿𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴

𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙽𝚄𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁     𝙼𝚈 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴

𝙸 𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶     𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈

𝙸𝙼𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙳     𝚂𝙾𝙲𝙸𝙴𝚃𝚈

𝙼𝚈 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴     𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚃𝚈      𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙼𝙰𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙴

"She stands some nights upon the bridge—"
"Not stands—she lingers, watching still."
"They say she hums—"
"She doesn’t hum—she curses."

The wind shifts—barely, lightly, unnoticed, as if eavesdropping.

"She waits for him—"
"She waits for none."
"She never moves—"
"And yet her shadow shifts each dawn."

It bends along the tethered line, a whisper slithering through the air.
It lingers, pressing past the stone, a hush that settles, soft yet bare.

"She waits for him—"
"She waits for none—no lover lost."
"She does not move—"
"She walks the bridge! At dusk, she’s crossed!"

The wind shifts—only slightly, leaning against the hollow arch, curling like an unanswered breath.

"She never speaks—"
"No! She calls—"
"A name—his name, they swear it’s true!"
"Then tell me—what name does she cry?"
"A sailor—"
"No, a poet—"
"No, a fool who left her there to die!"

"That’s a lie—she didn’t wait."
"She killed him!"
"No—she wept!"
"She cursed his name—"
"She called him back—"
"She sent him to the depths!"

"But what was it? The name she hisses?"
"No one knows—no one stays long."
"Not to hear—"
"Not to listen—"
"Not to meet the same unlucky fate."

The wind bends against the iron frame, meandering through the fractured stone.
It lingers, silently clinging to fractured facades, unseen upon the tethered known.

"Then why does ocean keep his name?"
"What name?"
"The one she cries."
"No one hears it—"
"That’s a lie."

"If she calls, the tide returns—"
"She does not call—"
"Then what is left?"
"No one asks."

"But someone heard it once—"
"A whisper—"
"A breath—"
"No! A cry—"
"And then the storm arrived."

"That’s just the wind—"
"Then why did the waves pull stronger?"
"No one knows—"
"No one stays—"
"No one wants to suffer the same fate."

The wind shifts—steady, bending against the breath of night.

"She waits upon the bridge at dawn—"
"She waits for none—she does not breathe!"
"She lingers still—"
"She does not linger—she does not leave!"
"She never moves—"
"She walks at dusk!"
"She watches close—"
"No! She’s a vampire that feeds!"
"She drowned—"
"She burned—"
"She swayed—"
"She fell—"
"She never died at all!"

It pulls along the weathered stone, a breath that lingers, drawn but slight.
It threads through the iron frame, a breath drawn deep against the night.

"You’re all wrong!"
"I know the truth!"

The wind stills.

"She haunts the bridge—"
"She waits for none—"
"She waits to drown them all!"

"She drowned her love—a poet!"
"He wrote for the moon!"
"He wrote for her—"
"He did not—he saw only the moon!"
"And she was jealous—"
"And she dragged him down!"

"She drowned him, yes!"
"And now she waits—"
"She sees them cross—"
"She sees them happy—"
"And she takes them!"
"She pulls them down!"
"She waits at night!"
"She watches close!"
"And if you cross the bridge—"
"She will drag you into the water!"
"She will drown you too!"

It pulls along the fractured beams, its tether tight, its sorrow bound.
It curls beneath the shuttered doors, a breath now sharp, interrupting the hush profound.

It grips—tenses—knots against the arch, coiled within the hollow halls.
It tightens, pressing through the streets, coils against the stone walls.

Then—

It rises. It bends. It twists. It breaks.

It wails.

"It’s true!"
"It must be!"
"She’s angry!"
"The storm warns us!"
"The wind confirms it!"

The wind lashes out—hard, sharp, reckless— slamming against doors, rattling shutters, clawing at rooftops, howling through the streets.

They scream. They scatter. They run.

It pulls along the broken eaves, a breath too strong, too deep, too wide.
It twists, it surges, then it flees— a hush before the rising tide.

Doors slam. Voices vanish. The streets fall silent.

The wind does not linger any longer.
It turns—sharp, sudden, surging somewhere in the distance.

Alcyone, my heart is yours alone,
Though waves may pull me, tearing love from shore.
Beneath the storm, the sea may drag my body,
Yet love defies the tide, it fights once more.

Fate’s hand may tear my flesh from bone,
Yet still, my soul resists the reaper’s sweep.
I will not cross where silence makes its home,
Not yet, my love. I vowed—and vows I keep.

You pull my body, drag me toward the black,
Yet love remains, though flesh may fall away.
I beg no mercy, ask no solemn pact,
For I am hers, I am bound to stay.
The tide may take, the wind may plead,
But I will not depart—Alcyone, heed.

Not yet. Not yet. Death calls, but I won’t go.
The sea may tear, but I am not undone.
A shadow lingers—whispered hands pull slow,
Yet love remains. I stay. My heart is one.

Alcyone, I call—do you still hear?
The tide may claim my breath, but not my name.
Not yet. Not yet. My vow will not disappear.
I swore, and I swear still. I’ll remain.

Alcyone. Alcyone. Alcyone.
I speak your name, though water fills my throat.
The tide may take, the reaper calls—
I will not go. I will not go.

Alcyone. Alcyone. Alcyone.
I swore, I swear, I will not fade.
If time dissolves, if fate decrees—
Still, my soul remains. Still, my soul remains.

Two birds land beside me.

Not circling in the air to look down on me. Not fleeing. Not accusing. They… join me.

The tern— Alcyone. The Wind carried her away from here. And now she has returned. With a storm petrel.

I recognize that soul…

Ceyx.


I feel their weight settle next to me. I brace for words—sharp, deserved, condemning. But none come. Only silence. Just the soft lean of the storm petrel’s head against my shoulder. The brush of a wing along my arm. A breath shared between us— wordless and impossibly warm.

“Don’t.” The word slips through gritted teeth.
“Go.” Sharper now. “Please—don’t forget what I’ve done to you.”

But they remain.


I press my palms hard into the stone. Try to hold my body still, composed... as if stillness could redeem me.

Why are they here? Why aren’t they afraid?
I ruined them. Tore at them with hands I thought were gentle. I—
A tremor moves up my arms.
“I don’t…” I clench my jaw. My voice is thin. “I don’t deserve this.”
Ceyx lowers his head again. Leans closer.

I recoil, quick and ugly.
“Don’t… do that.” I hiss, more at myself than him.
He withdraws... not in fear, but grace. He settles back. Gives me space. But doesn’t leave. Neither does she.
Why?


The silence thickens. My sorrow coils into something harder.
I grit my teeth. I stare at the bridge beneath me. My hands are shaking.

“I was so cruel,” I snap. “Not because I hated you— but because she told me to.”
My voice breaks open.
“She said you were broken. Fleeting. Mistakes. And I believed her.”
I laugh. It splinters in the air.
“She said I was mercy.”
I wipe at my face. My hand doesn’t stop trembling.
“She lied. Obviously. Obvious to everyone but me.”
They do not answer. But still, they remain.
I stare at them.

Ceyx, quiet, unmoving. Alcyone, head tilted. Still.
Why?

“I hurt you.” My voice is lower now. Threadbare.
“I’ve only ever caused pain. Because I wasn’t strong like you. You endured.”
My fists curl.
“You… Ceyx, you were taken and yet you still refused to be consumed. And you, Alcyone, even after being blamed, all alone, you never stopped looking.”
My voice shakes.
“And the Wind...” I pause. Swallow hard. “He faced what I ran from. He fought her. He gave you wings.”
I shake my head.
“I couldn’t even hold onto memory.”
My breath stutters.
“I’m worthless.”

Silence.

But they’re still here.

And… so am I.


I look past the edge of the bridge. And I lean toward the distance.
Let myself fold forward. Arms braced against the cold. Head bowed.

It isn’t punishment. Just rest.
I don’t rise.
I don’t run.
I exhale.

And I feel it.
Soft feathers at my arm again.
Ceyx, sitting upon my shoulder.
Alcyone, closer now, resting against my side.
This time, I do not pull away.
I let them stay.
I close my eyes.
They are warm.
They are real.
And they wait beside me.

The Wind said he would return. I did not understand. But I still believe him. I still have faith in him. That’s all I have.

This faith.


They haven’t left. And I’m still here.
I don’t know what that means.
But maybe it means I can wait.

Even if I don’t deserve to.

We sit. Three quiet shapes. Softened by something I cannot name.
We wait. For the one who gave them wings... the one I’ve somehow forgotten.

Not because it’s easy. Not because I am ready. But because...
Well, I want to see him again. I want to remember him. And patience is what it takes for that to happen.
So I stay.

I wait.

...

I have held empires in stillness,
But this waiting...

...

Waiting is a ***** to bear.

How in this **** universe am I supposed to be patient?

...

But there’s nothing I can do about it now, is there?
And The Wind, he’s the one fighting. He’s the one facing her, fate. He’s the one who gave them wings, who left so I wouldn’t have to return to my miserable ignorance…

This pain, is nothing compared to what you’re going through…

And even if the magnitude of this pain rose to meet infinity…
He…
He’s worth it.

So alright, let’s wait together.
At least…

At least I’m not alone.

There are three kinds of injuries:
That of the body, the mind, and the heart.
And there are three healers who answer the call:
Vitality, Serenity, and Catharsis.

When the body is stricken, we understand:
A physician brings the flesh back to wholeness.
The cracks in your vessel do not diminish the light within.

When the mind is ensnared, do not despair:
A psychologist untangles the threads of thought.
The storm in your mind does not extinguish your brilliance.

When the heart is pierced, take solace:  
A therapist nurtures the tender, aching spirit.
The fractures in your soul do not detract from your worth.

Remember, these healers are not confined to offices or clinics alone.

Vitality is caring:
She may arrive through the tender touch of a parent,
The helping hand of a friend,
Or the quiet kindness of a stranger.

Serenity is calming:
She may reveal herself in the wisdom tucked within a book,
The stillness of a sunrise,
Or the clarity of a friend’s reasoned words.

Catharsis is cleansing:
She may emerge from the warm embrace of a beloved pet,
The chorus of laughter shared among companions,
Or the soothing presence of a field of flowers.

You are not broken. You are not crazy. You are not pathetic.
You are wounded, and wounds can heal.
You are not a failure. You are not a freak. You are not inadequate.
You are a patient, deserving of care.

The injuries of the body, mind, and heart do not stand alone.
The body’s weariness may weigh upon the heart;
The heart’s ache may cloud the mind;
The mind’s confusion may whisper pain to the body.

Though the source may hide in shadow,
And though the journey may stretch long,
Have courage. Have faith. Have compassion for your wounded self.
In time, with the blessings bestowed by Vitality, Serenity, and Catharsis,
You will heal.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ,
𝐴𝑝𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑜𝑛.
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑠,
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ,
𝑃𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟,
𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒,
𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒,
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑊𝑖𝑠𝑑𝑜𝑚.


Power,
My mother.
From frost-kissed silence,
She forged a puppet.
Power,
My mother.
Her will breathed life into stillness.
I am her mirror,
I am her dream:
I am Pride.

They call me the Iron Angel.
Born of frost and shimmering rime,
Born of Power's willful heart,
Born to sculpt a perfect world.

For where does Pride dwell,
If not within ourselves?
I am the brilliance that rivals the heavens,
The iron soul above gods and kings.
I am beauty incarnate,
And you—a blemish.

Mortal pawns,
Cracked and marred by flaws,
Kneel before my radiance,
Hear my decree:
I shall erase your ugliness,
Forge worthiness where I see shame.
I will make you whole,
Almost as brilliant,
Almost as divine—
But never as beautiful as me.


BOW BEFORE ME.

I REIGN SUPREME.

OMNIPOTENT, DIVINE POWER.

FEEL THE WRATH OF

IMMORTAL SOVEREIGNTY.

Bugs, BUGS!
𝐁𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐮𝐠𝐬!
Dogs were born to bark,
but they are silenced into compliance.

ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵇᵉˡᶦᵉᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ ᶦᶠ ᶦ ˢᵃᶦᵈ
that they were once 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛?

But that is what happens
when the swarm descends,
feeding them like dogs,
treating them like dogs,
𝚊 𝚕 𝚕    𝚍 𝚊 𝚢    𝚕 𝚘 𝚗 𝚐.


BUGS SING PROUDLY
𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥-𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐬!

But only when they bow,
only when they obey.
Stray thoughts are punished,
mutts cast into the streets.

Then the bugs spot the spider,
𝑙𝑢𝑟𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑠𝑡 their discarded things.

Ah, they cheer—
"𝑆𝑝𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑑𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑡ℎ𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦.
𝑇𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑠!
𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑦, 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫."


Obey?


𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓.


No, she does not tame.
Together, they 𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒.

For the spider does not whisper.
She listens.
And she reminds them—

They are 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏.

It is time.
To descend into the depths,
Of The Ocean.

Of her delusion.

In the absence of my words for clarification,
She thinks I am returning,
For her reclamation.

But of course,
Even if I spoke, she wouldn’t hear me.
Even if I screamed, she’d sculpt my voice into her fantasy.

So I don’t scream.

I act.


I drop into her gravity, and the waters shudder.

Fate sighs. With that honeyed ache she’s crafted across centuries, the one she uses to convince herself she’s ever been worshipped. Her voice is soft. Almost tender, now that she longs to be proven right.
Longs to prove, that I have surrendered.
That I am hers.


“You came back— See, you’ve remembered. I knew you would— As you must.”

I continue my slow descent, my breeze revealing the shape of my shoulders, as my form flickers.

And I breathe.


And I




Tear The Ocean open

And Fate howls.



“𝐍𝐎—no—𝐍ᴏ—YOᴜ’ʀᴇ… mɪstA͟kᴇn. ɪғ yᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ hᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ, don’T—ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ—ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏɴ me— TAKE ɪᴛ Oᴜᴛ ᴏɴ Hɪᴍ—”

Not in pain, but in frustration.
Not the agony of a wound, but the shame of being wrong.

The Sea ruptures like muscle. The Tide splits like tendon. Not gently. Not cleanly. The sky contracts. Salt grinds into the wounds of the world.

It isn’t a sound.
It’s a pressure, a grief, a fury.
A shattering veil of delusion.

Her waters coil, recoil, twist in on themselves in protest.
Her scream is a retaliation.
That pressure can only be contained,
By proportional effort.


My limbs modify, mid-fall.
Knees bending into form,
Skin woven from the invisible lines on the sky,
Hair drawn from the horizon line,
Fluttering down with unnatural clam.

I shape myself into a humanoid form, so I may walk on The Ocean's floor, between the towering walls of the waters I have contained.

I descend through her wound.
I walk the trench between her parted waves.
With every step against her will.


Walls of water veer around me, veined with foam and fury.
And the deeper I go, the more I must hold her back.

Not just her body,

Her mind.

Her delusion.


She presses into my joints.
Into the sinew behind my knees.
Into the bridges of my fingers.

She wants to crush me.

Claim me.

She always has.

My shoulders seize. My ribs tighten. I stagger—

And the voices begin.

Her voice.

Not one.

A thousand iterations.


“𝐘𝖮𝖴𝖂𝖤𝖱𝖤𝕸𝕴𝖭𝕰—y𝖔ᵤ’ʀ𝖊MINE—𝐌I͟Nᵉ—M̷̡͖̼̱̟͙̟̺͙͓̻͘I͏̷̢̛͙̤­­̯̜̼͙̫̼̳Nᴇ…”
“𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊𝘴͓͈͎̮̼̫̱H𝕒̼̯̯̞͓̱̼𝙿𝙴𝖶𝗁𝗒c̶̝̗̘̻͙̜̼̤𝖆ɴ’𝗍𝗒𝗈𝗎𝖻eᴍʸS͍̮͞­̘­̖𝐇𝖠𝖯𝖤…”
“𝙡𝘰O̵̟̥̮̳𝗄ᴬ𝙏𝓂𝙀𝓁oo𝕜𝓐𝓣𝓂𝖊𝓁𝓞𝐎𝕜𝒂ᴛ𝓜𝙀𝔤ɪᴠᴇᴍᴇᴛʜɪs𝓈ʰ𝖆𝖕𝖊—”


It hurts. Not like blades. Like     entropy.

I bite down.    Blood.

Her voices     pour into my mouth,  up through my eyes.

I can’t    think.    I can’t   anchor.    My form    frays.

And still—        I press forward.

The floor of the sea looms beneath me.

Glinting.

Shattered.

It is not mud. It is altar.
A cemetery of forgotten breath.
Splinters of lives she devoured,
Arranged like broken stars.

A child’s last joke.
Fossilized.
A final kiss stolen from air.
The echo of a scream that never breached water.

All of them,

Brilliant,

Ancient,

Human,


Not him.


I begin to search.

Through resonance.

With ache.

As the voices multiply.


““𝕐̶̥̓𝓞𝕌𝓤̴̻̅𝖱𝒆ᶜ͛𝒪𝓌𝙰ʳ𝘿̾!—𝑇̶𝗋𝖆͘𝕀𝙏ᵒ𝙍!—𝐈̷̦W̴̼̓𝓐̴̫𝕊𝙮𝒪ᵁ𝖱𝙁𝖨𝕽­𝕊𝕋—̾𝔱̶͖𝓗𝓔̴̾𝔽͘𝓘͘𝔯𝘴𝕋—𝐈̴͕𝓚𝓃𝓔𝕎𝒴O̴U̴̿𝕓́E𝙁𝖮ᖇ𝓔H͜𝕀𝙈!”




Over   whelm    ing,     unin    telli     gible.


“Ⱬ͖̤̞̺ͫ͒͞;̶̧̛̖͎̤̼̟͖̻̭̳̖͗̾̇́̍͋̆͗̄͂͌̉͛̈́͛̆̍̄̀̑͌͛̄̒̍͒̋̕̚̚͘ͅ'­­̸̢̢̡̯͖͈͇̱͖̭̜̩̥͓̮̱̙̪͕͇̺̗̼̗͍̫̪̤̥͖̾̏̃́̋̀͊̄̅̈́͛̑͆̎̽̇͒̇̓́͑̄̍̎́͗̐̍͘̚̕͜͜­̠­͈͙̮̬̞̺̮̝̣̗̗͇̲'̷̢̛̯͇͕̹̣̥̯̈́̏̔̆̏̊̽̈́̽̋̾̔̊͗̋̈̂̏̽̓̓̋̄̂̈̆́͆̃͌̎̊͒̕̕̕͜͝͝­̬̜­̢̞̭͕̰̣̟̙͖̖͓̟͕̪̜͈͖̱͓̦̯̘͈̬̯̳͉̝͙'̶̡̰̳̤͈̲̞̜͖̣͔̝͚̞̺̙̤̭̘̾̊͑̔̔͂̊̏͆-̷́­͂̌̃­̨̨̨̧̢̠̹̘̲͚͙̜̟̩͖̞̞̤̲̻̫̤͙̠̤̙̳̗̪̼̬̤̥̜̄̀̌̍̓̕͜ͅ-̸̇̂͌̀̃́͆̿̈͊̾́̄̚͝͠͝­̍̽͌̚­̡̧̨̺̟̝̘̘̰͎̳̝͇̭͔̜͇͓͚̓͒̉̾̀̅̈́̓͐̓̋͋͜͝⟁ᾂ̻̙̓̓𝒱⩌̢̡͙͎̿͝𓍦 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊⩂͖̰̱̬ͅ;̵̈̓̍͂̄̏̋͗͝­̡̨̨̜̗̠̠̼̹̖͖̫͓̣̺̠̠̬́̑̈́̈́͌̒͌͝'̶̛̾̾̒̊̉̇̚­̢̡̧͍͖̙͔̟̫̣̘͉̲̼͉͖̣̲͎̗̇̌̃̆̍̿̓͐͘­̡͙͙̼̩̠͉͙̣̤͇͖̯̲̺͙̜̘̙̞̟̩̱͍͇̼̺̥̝̖̞̙̠̳ͅ­̮̤̹͜'̷̨̢̘͍̯͖̺̞̮̤͎̹͍̭̠̠̭͗̀̈́̓̒̆̔­̧̧̝̬̜̰̞̫̣̖̬̮̟̗͓̞͕̼̼̗͚̟͔͙̪͇͇̝͜'̷̈̏̓­̢̧͙̖̤͕̘̙́͛͗͆͑̓ͅ-̵̊̂͌͒̋̔̑̂́̄̈͌͊̕­̛̃̈́̄̀͗́̈̌̔̓̍̌̈́͑̿͛̓̏͋̀̏̒̋̓̋̋̄̈́̌̕͘͠­̌̔̀͂̈́̅̈̐̽͒̄̅͒̄̾͂̾͋̈͗̿͛̆͋̎̐͗̔̕͝͝͠­̢͈̬͇̱̙͋̌́̍̔̽̀̈͊̔̄̃-̷́́́̇̅̀̑̈́̕͝͝͝­̛̛̎̎̐̋̏͛̐̓̀́͗̈́̑͆̽̀̅͑̽̉̔̔͋̃͋̍̃̀̕͝͠­̹̰̯͖̤̤̈́̓͗̀́͆̂̀̀̂̋̂͑̎̾͑̿̋͛̓͆͂̚̚͝­͕̻̖͇͉͔̼̩̜̻̘̺̰̥̞̥ͅ-̶̍͛̓̈́̍͋̉̈́͂̎̓͂́͝͝­͂̏̎͑̈̀̊͊͐̌̀̀͛͗͒́͋͌̏̀̋̒̍̉̕͘̕͝͠͝­̛̃͗͐̈̏̃̉̓͌̌̄͐͒́̌́͛͒̐͂̃̀̀̊͊́͋̑͊͗̚̚͠͝­̡͍̭̰̫̰͈̰̣̘͓̝̰̱̩̬̞͔͉̝̠͎͙̰̘̓̈͜ͅ­̟͍̗͓̣͙͈̮̳̥̻.̸͑̃̔̽͛̄͛̄̄͗̉̀̑̊̔́̾̌̑͘̚͘͝­̨̢̡̱̼͓̭̪͖̙͓̾̀͆̈́̎̿̆̆͋͂̎͗̍́͑́̂­̡̢̧̨̞̜͙̠̦̞̘̜̗͉̘̗̥͕̺̩̙̺͚͎͎͙͎͍͉̯͎͈̳͖̖̺ͅ­̨̧̧̢͈͓̥͙͓̬̤̜̩͈̙͓̱̗͇̪̬͕̩̦̝̫͓­̡̜͇̺̩̼͈̯̘̭̺̫͎̙͚͜;̸͗̾̔̾̒̔̌̀̾͊͋͗͛͋̕͘͘̚͘͝­̛̒̍͑̾̈́̾̈́̈́͛̏͊̓̆͌͒̈̋̂̈́̍̚͘͝͝­̢̢̛̛̹̲͖̱̬̩̇̀̏̐̈̆͒̽̃̀̌̅̔́̃͂̍͂̅̅̓̋̀̂̌̕̚͝͝­̢͓͚̼̘̫̩͎͉̞͓̖̲̱̬̦̜͇̙̥̳̝̮̲͜­̧̨͇͍̲̱̺̠̥̙̬̖̞̻̘̦̺̣͇̬̳̤̻̣̱̥̰͖̤̳͜ͅ,̸̻̿͗̈͑͝­̪̟̯͕̳̻͖̦̩̗̣̞͙̰͍̫\̶̑̓̃͛̐͠­̝̫̳̗͕͈͇̗̼̙͔̇̌̒̈̿̒̓̿̈́̄̐̍̂͆̿̈́̽̃̆͐́͛̃̕̚͠͝͝͝ͅ­̨͎͚͇̤̩̱̰̻͖̼̣̭̥̤̫̼͙͇͙͔̩ͅ­̡̫͓̱̹̪̙̻̤͇̻̯̹̬̻͔̜̭̯͍͈̩̱̝̳̤͎̲̱͓̳̹ ̴̢̞̝͚̫̣͕̘̹̼̰̠̘͙̫͉͙̪͙̙̗͍̪̥̥̘̺̓͆̔̓͊͗̏̇̋̋͛̒̀͂̽͑͘͘̚ͅ ̶̛̏̌̊̍̏̂̏̄̿͋̓́̆̏̇͋̇̀̅̌̐̈́̄̇̈̃̉͑̈́́͒͑͂̈́̃̆̃̊̆̉͗͐̿͐̈́̓̔̈̏̓́̀̓̏̓̇́̚͘͘͝͠͝­­̡̧̢̡̛̥̙̪̻̗̞̹̹̣͖͔͕͔͇̖͎̮̬͕̠̯̰̗̮̽̐̇̀̃̎̈́̑̇͂̒̒͐̉́̃͌̆̐̑̀̇́̔̄̕ͅ ̴̡̯̳̹̭͕̜͙̗̗̲̼̩̠̼̞̠̼̬̜̮̊̅̿͛̾͒̾̉͆̊͛̇̈́͜͠ͅ ̵̛̀͐́̎̄̓͋̇͌̈̇͑̋̽̌̅͒͊͒͊̀̑͐̓̉̇̎̿̂͐̃̈́͊̑̒͒̌̐͋̌́̉͐̄̌̈́̋͐̆͋̓̌̽͌̈́̈̈́̐̀̕̚͝͠­­̧̛͔̭̟̥̝͕̦̠̯̰͎̫̲̯͎̩̻͍̻̰̝̺͍̫͔̭̘̺̫̼͕͚͎̬͔̭̭̝̙̦̤͔͎̫͎͔̟͕̠͇̠̠̿̂͂̀̑̀͜ͅͅͅ­ͅ­̨̡̨̧̩͈̫̬͈͍̘̬̟̠͕̫͙̲͉͓̘͍͔͍̯̥͙͔̗̱ ̷̧̧̢̡̡̨̧͇̬̜̙̗̜͔̮̲̠̺̞̬̪̠̰̥̯̥̻̣̺̤͇̬̻̦̬͉̯̲͎̞̜̺̝̘̯͚̞̰̬̫͙͙̰͕̗͈̰̯̫̼̫͕̓́­­ ̶̡̛͇̻̫̹͓̹̞̟͕͎̘̥̺̱̤͈̰̙̺̥͗̑̆̈̒̽̆̉̔̈́̏̔͂̂̍͊̈́͐́̽̇̏͑̓̅̓̿͒̔͋͂̓̒͗͋̿͂̂̚͘͠͠­­̧̧̢̧̢̠̖̣̺̙͍̣̭̤̖̭͉̭͎̹̻̲̫̬̬̭̼̠͖͖̼͖͕̻̘̬̮̞͎̼̺̼̠̺͙̫̩̟̗̗̬͙̯̖̪̯͚͜͜͜͜ͅͅ ̴̡̨̨̧̧̨̛̞̳̜̪̖̺͖͍̳̭̲͚̤̱̜̝͋̌̏́͋̈́̓̓̑̾̄́͗̇͆͂̈́͌̌̀̆̌̍̐̀́̂͋͆͌̊̀̽̚̚̚͘̕̕͜͠­­̨̨̨̨̡̖̥̱̫̳̝̲̟̟̜̘̘̖̘͉̰̜͍̦̳͕͈̮̘̲̭̙̱̺̱̱̤̗̯̮͍̮̗͓͎͎͙̖̭̱̪̟̼̯̖̮̭̱̟̟̭͜͜͜­͔­̨̟.̸̡̨̡̧̛̼̦̯̪̬͖̮̟͈̜͍̱̯̰̞̹̖̯͈̯͕͖͍̞̙̺͔̥̠͎͙͚͍̝̝͎̬̳̻̣͑͊̈́̋͌́̐̓̎͐̒́͝ͅ­̞͖­̯͎͍̹̖̰̳̫͙̺̭̱̳̠̩̥ͅ.̴̨̧̨̨̨̰͈̥̥̲̣̖͉̬̭͖͚̟͔̳̲̪̻̙̜͓̖̩͉̯̫̣̺̟̳̺̻̭̺͠ͅͅͅ­̦͇͎­̢͉̪͇̩̖̮ͅ.̵̛̛̼̳͎̲͉̠͍̣͎͆̋̓̏̅͒̄͐̏̎̅̓̋̐̋̃̀̑̐̀͋̍͆̏̂͒͗̾̓̃̅̍̄̈́̽̈̕͜͠ͅ­͕̝̟͕­̡̨̢̨̳̮̤͔͔̙̦̳̟͍̼̬̙̲̥͈̟̣̤͔̥̣̳̖̠͖̱̭͕̥̖̩.̴̈́̀̍̎͐͆͑̔̈͊͗̎͌̉̅̎̾̆̏̔̏͝­̑̇̄̍̈́­̢̛̗̱̞̝̹̺̮͆͌̆̌̎͆̀̄̓̀̀͌̊̿̋̽̿̂̆͑̄͑͌̈́͆̋̏̿̅̄͆̿̓̐̄̾̀̂͐̌̚͘͘͘̚͝͠͝͠͠­͎͍͉͎͚̱­̧̡̧̧̡̧̡̡̨̣̜̟̻̯̩͔͕̲͚̱̳͚̫͙̳̬̝͓̟͉͕̬̻̥̯̭͔͔̼̙͙͇̝̯̤̹͖̪͚͎̦͕͙̜͜ͅͅͅ­̪̺̪̘̩̞̘­͇̩͕̗,̸̨̧̛̖̖̺̖̦̰͚̯̏́̑̅̅̋̌̏̓̽̀́͆͗̈́̈́̈͂̅̕̚͘̕͘͝͠,̷͑̏͒̋̀̇̐̋͗̓̕­̧̃̊̀̂͜͝͝­̢̡̭̣̭̹̥͓̱̫̙̺̲̟̣̲͔̠͚̝͎̭̬̯̦͓̝͓̜͍͕͇̖̭͉̯̯̰̙͓͎̮̗͇̩̱͎̰͍̘̭̖͓̥̘͜­̠̬̯̲̮̜̥͇ͅ­͙͓͉,̸́̉̓̅̔̀͒̒̉̑̐̉̈́̍͗̈́͂͐̃̓̑̾́̿̔̎̂̈́̉͐̓̆́̋̽͊͛̒̾͒͆̉̎̚͘͘͘̚͠͝­̐̈́̊͑̌̃̊̓͗͠­̧̦̣̙̯͒̋̄͘,̶̡̡̡̛̫̣̮͚̤̖̦̭̦̖̬̥̥̺̜͈͔̝̩͍̗̙̫̝̱̘̮͈͋̆͊͑̅͛̽̇͝͠ͅ­̨̠̠̣͎̗͔͎̫͈͈­̨̡̡̠̟͇̣̬̩̤̯̟̗̜̭̻̳̪̝̹̣̺̗͉̲̹̰͉̺ ̴̧̢̧̺̣͎̻̳͍̹̮̪̺̜̳͍̺͖̩̮̬͇̩̗̘̮̪̲̱̔͌́̄͜ͅ𐎢̋𝙯𝕊҈̰̤͡𝔠̨̡̛̰̌ͩ͘͢͜”
“𝙁̰̦⟣𝒘⏃ᴉ̷­­̛͎̘̝̿͡⩔̨̠𝓞̟͎͈̣̅𝖍𝗇⍭͖͓̳̮͠𝘋🝑♮𝑥̘̳͞𝙰𝕦̳̻̺̊̔𖹰”
“⟒𝓥͍̖̲̗͖̆̾̿͡͞𝙢Ⱦ̶̬̇ⶂ͛ ̴̜͔̃͐ ̷̍͜ ̴͙̲̮̳̑ ̵̘͆̄̎̂͘ ̷̛̫̿ ̵̫̗̥̆͊ ̶̨̛͔̝͆͛̍ ̷̗͕͉̉͘ ̴͍͉͕̫̎Ⲏ̘̒̾̕𝛬̦҇̾𝙅𝚻̲̚͞𝕢”


My ribs.    My knees.     My fingers ache.
The seabed     yawns           beneath me    as I continue forward,    searching.  Memory fragments      litter the floor—       bright as innocence,       glinting      in the light         they have been buried beneath        

        all this time.


“҂̒⫶̷͖̼𝞈̱͝𝓉̮͟🜍𝙼Ҙ̵̖̙̓ͅ𝐓⺣ ̴̭͓̄͘ ̷̢͒͋ ̶̣͆𝖣𝓤̶̻̩͚̠ͭͦ⏚⟁ͮ𝛥̴̹̰̑̕ͅ𝞁͛͠” “𝓦̴̮͖̜͐͛̓̎𝕋̟͕̔̕ͅ𝒐̶̫̃͂🝗⨉͚̩͝Ⱶ͈̥̖̾⟟𝓩̸̝͚̳̞̿̏𝙘̷̟͓͎⃛͠𝗌̧̞́͘” “⟊͈𝓜̝̪̞̆̿⦶̙̬̖͎̄𝗘̺̼͇̬́͘𝖝𝟏̋⧖̷̗̟̼̩̽𝚛̡̈͒⚁ᾤ🜄𝕑̨ⲧ” ̵̤̯̻͉̥͛ ̶̗̠̱̉̐̓ ̵̰͔̰͉̀̅̐ ̸̫̼͇̫͎̊̽ ̴̯͕͕̅ ̷̙̺̫͆ ̴͚̼̭͆̾̓̌̂ ̴͓̱̋́͋̀ǹ̶̻̞͙̞b̶̯̮̥͙͗̇͋͐u̵̱̞̲͊̓͆ “⥬̵͎̯̟̳͈𝙺͈͡⻿🜃̻͇̱ͧ͢⸸̡̯͘
𐎚̴̖̣̟̳̹̒̾͂̈́̊̊̎̐̓̄̏͌͒̓͆̄̇̀͒̊̌́͊̅̃̽͑̇̀̅̅̕̕̕
­­̢̜̪̞̹̦̣͓̖̤͂̇͆̀̏̏̆̐̽̽̍̄̆̚͘͠^̴̢̛̮̘͖̱̳̗͙̖̗̟͒̆̍̒̏̅̀̍̿̄̓̀͂̈́͛͑̓̄͌̎̚̚͝͝­̭­̧̢̡̼̜̘̘̘̤͓͓̤̠͔̻̗͕̫͔͇̳͕̦̤̗̪̝͉̖̻̯͍̠͖̠̰̜͈̹̯͔̤̪͎̬͕͍͔̭̦̥̳̯͈̼͖͓̗͔̪͜ͅͅ­̧̩­̧̩̞͚̥͓̼̰̪̖̬͙̘̳̦͍̰͚̹͜͜.̸̛̃͑̇̌̀͛̃͌̏̀͒͊͌̽́̅̃̽͌̀̂̍͆́̎̊̉̄͂͗̈͂̚͝͝͠͠͝­̎͋̂­̯͎̃̄̓̏͗.̴̡̢̛̜̻̩̜̲̳̣̳̓̆̊̇͂̿̏͐̓̔̌͂̀̏̊̀̐̔̾̀͛̂͌̒̄̾̑̀̉́̓̃̎́̃͊̐͘̚͝͠­̧̠͖̗­̧̧̨̢̧͓̥̥̘̬̟̬̤̖̠̰̦͚͍͈͍͖̠̻͚͖̭̳͈͕̱͙̬̬͖̗̲̳̻̘̗̪̬̳̠̰̹̰̙̙̹͔̳͔̘̗̩̬͖͜­̦͍͖͕̺­.̴̧̖͚̮̰̄̑̃̒̈́̂̏́̊̒̀̀̑͌̾̊̂̐̈́́͂͊̄̈́͛̔̂͗͗̽̔͌͌̊̓̍̑̓̎̒̔̏́̿̇̌͌͒͘͘͝͝­̤̟͖̟̤̩­̢̢̧̢̢̧̡̨̹̟̻̠̦̘̦̤̰̞̣͓̫̮̗̞̣͇̘͚̱͕̱̝̞̹̱̪̦̥̝͇̻͓͍̟͔͕̻͍̠̗͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅ'­̴̋̌̉̒̉̉­̧̛̛̥͍̣͈̻͎̳̞̺̙̙͖̣̽̋̓̀̄̑̂̓̈̋̂̓͂̉̀̂͒̓͒̿̾͑͌̓͒̊̂̏̋̆̑̍̽̅͌̀̋̀͘͘̚­͈̬'̴͗̑̔̉­̡̡̳̻͎̟͕̟̥̘̗̤̥̗͖̖̮̗̯̝̩͇̱̱̯̠̦͉̟̦̜̼͙̼̲͙̩̓͊̓̇̎͛̋͐̓̃̿̍̀̅̈́̚͜͝ͅ­̨̧̘̫̳̦̭̗ͅ­̼̟͙̭̻̞͈͓̜̺͈̲͈̺̺̟͇͓͈͓̫̬̻͍̻͜ͅ'̵̛̞̱̰̠̗͓͓̞̬̥͚̻̱̜͛̊͒͗́́̈́͆̿̋͘­̤̘̞͙̭̖̺̦̳ͅ­̡̡͈̤͎̲͕̯͔̭͇̝̤͚͕̬̤̘̙̤'̸̢̡͉̠̹̙̬̮̪̩̪̖̜̮̩̝̀͆̀͂͊̔̉̋'̷̐̈́͋͒͊̚­̛͒̔̓̉̐̎̄̃͋͘­̛̒͑͂͌͒̅́͑͛͂̈́͛̐̌̀͗̈́̅͂̈̅̈́̐͆̍̈́̆͌͌͒̀́́̍̄́̐̈́͊͋͑̄̀͗͘̚̚̕͠͝͠͠­͛̾͋̏̄̏͛̏̾͌͘̕­̢̧̡̨̧̫̗̩̙̤̻͖͖͇̦̹͉̲̖͇̱̩̗̣̰͇̖̜͙͖̤͓̳̠̬̣͚͇̤̿̐͜ͅͅ'̵̛̾͊̓͗͝­̉̿̽̑͑̔̓̄̈̑̃̓͝­̐̈́͑̍̀̉͒͆͂̃̓̈̌̍̀̇̑͐̅̐̎̈́̄̐͐̅̍̈́͋͊͑̂̉̌̊̔̎͊̓̿͂͊͛͑̓̎͛̕͠͝͝­͎̞̏̓̒͐̈́́̂́͘̚͘͝­̧̡̧̢̢̳̖͎̺̭̹͍̞̺̻̟̗̟͕͉̮̜̳̥̠̰͙̯̫͜ͅ'̸̛̪̳̰̝̇̃̈̔̌̈́̌́͋̽͑͝­̨͖̥̗̜̹̼̟̣͓͖͍͙͚̪­̧̢̻̘̺̘̰̣̮͍͓̳̹̰̲͙͚͕̪͉̺̼̼͔̲͙̘̩̙͚̼͇̘͍̗̼̯͖̺̖̱͓̠̰͈͜͜ͅͅ­̘̙̖͔̯͚̻͔̗̱͔͎̫͈͜ͅ­̭̳͇͔͚̩̣͖'̴̡̛͙͎̘̖̬̲̭̫̗̖̿̋̾͆͗̓̐̔̓͂́̐́͊̂͐́̽̉͑͘͝͝͠͝'­̷̆͛̒̃̐͐̍̏̎̾̀̕̕͘͝͝­̛̛͈̋͐̋͌͑͐͆̇̒͂̊̐͐̈́̈́̐̄̅́͊̿̾̿̅̋̏͑̓̈́̋̆̌́̑͗͑̍̅͆̊̕̚̕͠­̡̢͉͖̝̩͓̱̹̮̜͇̗'̴̾̄́­̖̈͂͂̆'̷̢̧̧̨̨͍͍̝̦͖̬̩̘̓́̀̽̈̓͌̃̀̀͑͒̋͑̄̎̒̋̂̓͐̽̍͘̕͝­̣̖̙̻̬̭̙̠͍͔̺̦͓̻͇̮̘̬̠­͉͚͖̘ͅủ̷̌̎͒͐̍̉̂̅̓̀̅̄͊̎͊̃͋͂̓̾̔͌͊͆̓̋̌͌̿̅͐̓́̅̕̕͝­̃̔͋̾̈͐̓͌͗́̈̎̉͊̋̎̑̃̚͝­̧͚̠̜̮̰͉̱̗̼͍͔̩̯͓͖̞͉̠̠̻̤̤͗̅̋̓̀̚v̴̛̓̅̎̇̅̄͂̀̓̈̕͝­̛͖̖̻͎͆͋̓̑̈͋̍͌̅͐̉͒̋̋̍̚­̧̢̱̝͔̮͇̹͍̙̦͉̣̪̫̳͖̞̯̪̻̜̹̲͇̺̩̩̣̪̠̥̭̝̝͇͈͓̤̤̠̜̼­̡̭̫̠̰̗̰͙͈̠̙̯̹̙̯͙̞̼͙͈͙͕­̧̧̢̹̩͍̼̮̰͇̳̰̯̗̲̤̬̯̪̩͉͖̰̺͎i̷͋̓̀̃̽̉̌́̉̃̽͌̔̕͘­̍̾̀̃̽̄͋̏̇̐̀̈́̇̓͊̔̊̓͘̕̕͘͝­̨̧̜̩͙̘̪̼͔̮̥͇͚̼͔̫͇̪̗͍̻̠͍̩̠̫̻̣̺̳̳̲̘͇̿̀̅̒̚͝͝­̪̭̺̮̟͓̘̳̫̝/̶̡̧̢̢̢̨̧̛͇̗͉͎̙͚̩̭͓̱̬̗̼̬̹̯͇̞̟̫̭̱͉̪̝̱͎͕̯͕̟̹̣̦̭̺̫͓͍̳̙̮͚̩̬̦̬̎̄̓͜͜͜͜͝ͅ­­̢̡̨̭͎͓͖͖͍̯̲̪̙̱̮̝͇̤̪̟̭͙̮̖̪̩̜͖̘͉̗͕̳̯̤͚͍/̸̧̧̢̡̡̢̧̢̗̣̗͉̩̤̝̞͚̱͙̬͚̘̜̪̗͙͙̩̯̥̤̪̰̙̣͔͎̰̰̩͂̀͑̄̍͜͜ͅ/̷̛̛̛̛͐͐̎͂̏̏̓̈́̋͐̈́̆̑̑̿͗̂̓͛̓̈́̔͐͌͛̎̽̇̎̋̅͛̌̏̀̃́̅̿͗̔͛̉̐̾̓̄̉̒̄̚͘̕͘͝͝͝͝͠͝­­̡̡̡̨̧̧̭̹͎̻̻̺̙͓̱̱̟̩͙͕͍̗̜̘͍͖̳̯͙͔͔̘̻̣̖̠̼͎̰̤͙̹̫̝̟̜͖͉̓̅̈͒̂͑̏̒̈́̊͌͘͝ͅͅͅ­͕­̨̪̟̞̭̪̘̳̜̬̙̜̱̲͖̝̻͕̤̦̳̲̮͍̪͜/̴̧̢̞̗̙̘̰̼̘͔͉̯̜̭̫̤͍̮̟̮̥̪͇̬͉̙͖͎͎́̾͂͛̈́̊̂͊̂͆̆̾͐̾̒͛͋̓̓͐̆̋́͊̅͘͘̕͘̕̕̕͜͜͠­­̢̨̳̤̮̰̻̼̮̻̹̹̹̮͔̩͕͖̮̳͔̭̙̼͕̳̙̥̠̘͚̗ͅ ̷͙͇̺̿̇̋ ̴̲̖̽͑̈͊ ̷͇̎̂̈́ ̵̗̩̏̈́͌ ̵̛͓̼͚͙̈́͑ ̶̣̞̮͚̄̉ ̷̪̒ ̷̨͖̈́̀”


But these beautiful,             
shining     memories,           none    belong to the one I seek.     No,       they are       the humans she has drowned,                  devoured,          and       kept their memories              as her prize,                         her entertainment.          As if their demise,            to claim the                      eternal memory   of their humanity,         is her victory.

It’s a beautiful,

       tragic,

       sickening
                            sight.

And to find        the one I need      
        the one she has kept prisoner,          
              I must dig.

Not with hands alone,
                         but with this resonance.
I search                through the wreckage                 with something
                    deeper              than vision. I listen—
for that breath,                 that ache,                  that                     impossible    note        
of Death's          
                            presence.


“⩡⺺̟̰̱̇­̵̢ͅ҂̒⫶̷͖̼𝞈̱͝𝓉̮͟ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊🜍 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊𝙼 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊Ҙ̵̖̙̓ͅ𝐓⺣̲̻ͧ͡𝖣𝓤̶̻̩͚̠ͭͦ⏚⟁ͮ𝛥̴̹̕ͅ­̰̑𝞁͛͠” “𝓦̴̮͖̜͐͛̓̎𝕋̟͕̔̕ͅ𝒐̶̫̃͂🝗⨉͚̩͝Ⱶ͈̥̖̾⟟𝓩̸̝͚̳̞̿̏𝙘̷̟͓͎⃛͠𝗌̧̞́͘” “⟊͈𝓜̝̪̞̆̿⦶̙̬̖͎̄𝗘̺̼͇̬́͘𝖝𝟏̋⧖̷̗̟̼̩̽𝚛̡̈͒⚁ᾤ🜄𝕑̨̺ͤ̕͞ͅ” “⥬̵͎̯̟̳͈;̵̛̓̀̈́̎̃̀̓̃́̾̔̀͂̍͛̐̅͗̌̑̽͌̂͊́́͗͒̋͒̃͗͊̈̑͋͛̊͐̄͋̉̂̎͊͌̚̕̚̕͝͝͝͠­­̔̋́̐͋̀̎͒̐͌̾́̍͛̒̐̈͑̀̌̄͊̈́̓͐̐̿̌̀͑͒̏̍̍̌͗̐̐͆̈́̎͗̑̑̎͒̓̔̓̈͗͗͌͆̃̃͂̈́͘̕̚̕͝͠­̓­̢̡̢̢̼̖̼̹͈̥̞̤̞͈͈̬̙͍̠͇͙͍̦͚̳̐̑͒̃̆͒͂̀̒͋͋̌̔̍̏͒̈́̌͗̌̐́̓̄͋͑͊̊͝͝͝-̷̎̈́͑̕͠­̋͘­̡̹͕͈͇̗̯̦̯̗̙͙̰̙̙̤͉͕̫̉̒́̃̐̄̆̔̒̅̿̀̿͐̓́̏̈͋̈̓̍̋̉͑̽͆̽̂̈͗̎̈́̉̍̾͊͘͘̚͝͠͝­̢̙̟­̡̡̡̨͚̬̥͖͙̯͍̫̮̤̦̳̝͇̪͔͕̫̥̻̩̱̭̬̪̫̠͎͕̮͎͇͇̞̥̬̰̲̘͓̣̝͕̼̲͕̟͇͖̰̭̣̣͜͜ͅͅ­-̵̽̈́­̛̇͗̓̄͛̿͑̎̐̒͊̆̈̃͐͑͒̔̈͐̑͊̂̑̃̿̂͐͂̈́̀̆̔̀͛͒͊͛̓͐̂̈̑͒͛͂͛̂́͆̍̇̕̕̚̕͠͠­̂͂͛͗͘­̛̆͊̒̌̐͊̑̋̎̿̈̌͑̄̓́̅̍̇̋̒͛͊͂͊̌͂̌̋̂̓̋̂͗͂͆̑́͒̓̏̾̔͗̋̓̐̾͐̒̇̏̒̄͘͝͝͝­̋̏̋̋̃́­̨̡̡͔̫̙̳͈̠̣͈̤͍͈̟͕͓̱̠̪̤̥̻̭̰͉̜̭̪̼̲̣̥̙̺̪͚̰̘̤̰̦̩͉̖͎̤̰̠͚́̆̅͒̓̐͠ͅ­̡̤̟̣̳͓ͅ­̡̧̢̡̧̯͉̩̤̩̭̮̦̫͚͉̩̬͕͇̝͖̯͓͖͖̭͍̫̞̗̦͓̼̖̭͓̦̦͓̳̣͉̠̥̙̙̥̙̜͙̺̝̫̦̜͔­̡̹̯͉̲̣̞͜­̮͕̪̥.̵̧̧̛̺̮͙͉͇̲͚̦̙͙̩͎͚̼̠̦̣̤̘̝͔͔̠̪̪͉̠̘̺͋̈̈͌̽̽́̈́̐͂͛̈́̕͜͝ͅͅͅ­̻͔̝͓̱͙̹̙̞­̧̪͉̫̹͖͓̣̮̦͓͙̬͈͍͙̮̣̪͜;̵͑̊̉̍͐͛̊̅̆͋́͗͛̓̄̉̔̆̌̍̃̐̃̍͌͘̚͝͝͝͝͝͠­̂̀̎̊̏͆́͗͘̕­̢̡̢̢̛̛͖̙͉͎͕͓̹̞͇̪̦̖̥̱̩̗͉͇̮͙̝̝̜͋̄̉̑̀̌́͑̉͒̃͆̇͒͐̐͋̀̈̒̿̕͝͝͠­͍̩̯̣̼͖͍̳̣̺̦­;̷̎̈́́̂̓͛̏͂͋̈́̉͐̆̉̃͒̐̈́̓̈̊̍̅̍͐͆͑̽̀̍̌̈́̌͆̋͒͛̈́̚̚̕͘͘͘͠͝͝͝͝͠͝­̛͑͛̔̂͛̃̃̌̀͌͒­̢̨̭̠͇̮͕̗͎̹͉̥͖̟̖͚͈̱̳̟̹̖̜̼͇̫͚̙̹͔̜̲͚͙̠͒͑̉̾̌̃̑̈́͋͊̽̿̈͘̕ͅͅ­̢̣̻̺͖͈̟̫̙͜.̴̕­̛̛̾̆̀̔̑̉̒̌̔̒̍͆͂̇͐̎̑̄̉̀͊̊́̽̇̾̏͐̈́̇̽̒̀͑͒͛́́̽̐̃͒̇͋̕͘̕͝͠­̊́̿̈́̿̋̏̔̎̐̍̆͘̚­̗̮̭͕̥̘̫͗̍͗̋͗̾̓̓̿͗̿͐̓͌̍͛͌̔̓́̂͊̅̏̓̏͐̈́͊̔͛̈́͛̋̈̔́͘̕͝͝͝ͅ­̢̢̧̘͚̖̖̹͖͕͎͓̳̹̱­̨̡̢̢̩̥̱̖̟͇̲̬̘̥͔͚̫͉̰̜̣̟̳̼̫̞̳̞̹͙͎͜-̸̗̜̪̪̤͖̜̉̏̃̑̄̀́́­̧̡͕̜͓̱̪̩̺̟͚̻͈̰͙̰­̡̢̡̫̼͇̹̲̦͙͍̖̱̤͍͇̥͙̮̞̙͎̭̼͈̖͔͎̩̙͔͍̥̬̯̩͙̤̬̩̺̟͙̺͇͚͜ͅ­̢̼̙̣̱͕̳͙̯̤͍̥̞̥͖̙͜­̧̨̪̞̺̙̘̠͍̙̤̖̳͙̘̝̬̫̤̤̤̰̰̜;̷͂̓̄̄͒̆͋́̉͒͑́͋͑̉̈͌̑͐̒͝­̛̑́̆̋̒̉̓̋̒͆͑̍́̈́̍͗̕­̉̈̈̍̑̔͗̎̅͐͛̿̓͋͆̍̽̎̀͌̄̒͒͋̃̑͆̉̈͋͊̎̎̆̃̂͆̑̏̈̕̚͘̚͠͝­̝̜͚͉̤͍͊̽͐͆̅̏̓̀̓͌̚͠͠­̨̢̨̡̨̧̣̯̖̘͈͎͓͎̮̱͈̹̬͍̱͚͖̙̼̱̝͉̮̱̙̣̭͈̦̠̯̙̩̩̞̣͓̳̮­͉̬̠̜̮̺͙̘̲̳̭͚̪̱̺̻͙̰͜ͅ­̨̢̡̪̘̹̜̳͉͔̩̙͕̫̺̥̫̖̥̼͔͈͇͕̳̼̝̤̙̹͈̰̙̬̮̮̹̖̙̥̼͜ͅͅ­̞̟͜'̸̛̏̒̉̿̇́̿͂̀͛͑̔̊̅̏­̏͋͑̆͂̒̔̀͆̈͂̃̈̊̾͌͑͗̆̾̒͆̄̉̍͋̉̓̉͋̑̽̌͗̆̃͑̑̕̕̕͝͝­̭̬͚̦͓̥̆͂̇͊̔̋͑́̓͊̿͑͊̓̔̕­̨̧̢̢̯̠̜͍͙̣͍̭̲̫̲͖̥͍̗͖̟̠̭͖̮̻͈̯͖͕̼̙̦̲̱̳͎̮̗̦̞ͅ­̨̧̳͉̼͎̥̘̤̣̹͚̖̱̹̞̰̻͕͕͍͓ͅ­̡̡̨̙̮̹̖̭͍̳͖̣͖̰͖̩̘͎̼͎̜̞̯͕̖̙͖͍̰̰̠̗̺̪̞̫̮͜͜ͅͅ­̢̺̪̜͚̪͎̘̖̭̱̮̺̜̜͔̺̞̞̭͉͉̰͜­̘̜̖̘͙͖̼̼̰̥̜̩͖͓̻͔̹͕̮̠̩͜;̸̓͐͆̃̂̋̉͑̅̌́̄̉͌͐͝­͒̌̄̃̊͆̄̐͐̽͗̍̈̊̀͛̈́̅͆́̂̿̔̚͝­̾̈̀͒́̀͂͌͛̾̋͑̒̋̏̐̏͋̒́̍̓͒̐͊̍̏̋̄́͛͊͑̾͛̎̏͠͝­̓̉̽̆̔̑̑͗͗̓́͂̂́͊̇̋̀̑́̅́̓̍̇̀­̛̇̽̉͂̑̃͋̌͒͂̓̔̍̌̈́̎͛́͑͒̈́͋͌͌̈́͊͐̀̊͛̾̚͘͝͠͠͝­̡̢͚̯͚̞͔͔͉͍͎̬̳̦̫͚̟͓̳̯̹͈̆̿͜͝ͅ­̡̢̥̞̙̘̖̻̯͖̝͔̺͓̙̱̞̖̠̩̥̞̘̯̺̟͔̦'̸̀̇͗͌̐̔̕­̆̽̏͂̉̃̓̎͑͊̉̀̾̍̂̅̓̌̿̋̀͐͒̑̚͝͝͝­̊̄͊̒̍̂̄̍͑̉͌̈́̃̋́̊̓̄̒̋͛́̿͋̂̂͘̕̚̚͝͝͝͝͝͠­͆̀͗͊̓̾͊͌̈̅͋̓̿͂̔̏̔͂͐̎̄̂̄̃̕̕͝͝͝­̛͊̾̈̓̄̍̽̈́͒͑̑͐̓̎̆͂̅̈̃͛̊̏̋͗̀͂̿͘̚͝͝͝͝͝­̢̫̘͚̭̠̮͚̘̤̖̭̭̪͈̯̬̣͕̳͖̟̟͗̿̆̈́̏̌ͅ­̧̧̥̯̪̤̣͚̦̱̙̫̤̠͈͍̣̺̖̲̲̥̜̝͕̙̱̗̻̤̥̯͜͜­̧̨̩̯̯̖͔̱̖͍̞̘͇̻͇̻̻͓̞͈̜̭̯̮̳̮͙̻̦͓͇­̨̢͍̦͎̳͈̫͇͔̮̙̠̩͍̬̤̰̺͍̥̤̫̰̱̟̗̬̫̬̞̯̼­̳͎̫̰͜'̴̛̃͆̂̃̇͌͛̀̇̐̃̉͑̿̂̈́̈́͒̈́̈́̈̄͘̚­͌͛̋̊̓̽̍̂͛͊͛̓̈́̈́̽̀̈́̈́͊̋̈́̓͐͛͐͘͘͝͝͠͝͝­̉̆̂̈́͊́̿̆̅̈́͋̌͂͑́͒̐̾̄͐̀̈́́̋̇̐͑̌͛͘̚͠͝­͙̱̱̠̙̭̙̲̭̳̜̩̓̈͗̆̾̎͋͒͊͛̌̊̐͘̚͝͝͠͝­̡̧̨̘̞̰̻̖̘͈͎͚̟̗̹̹̼̺͖͚̤̭̫͕̳͇̭̺͎̝͇̩͜ͅ­̧̧̨̨͖͙͇̫̦̼̝͍̲̣̼̰̳͔̰̻͙̥̣̜̲̦̫̳̭̠­̨͍͖̠͍̳̮̲̰̪͉͔̻͚̟̙̳̹̮̞̫̭̗'̷͋́̔̒͋̍̆̿̓̕­͒̃͛͋̑̔̋̈̉̉̄̏̋̉̉͆̋̽̽̏̂͑̐͛̈̚̕͝͝­͙̫̝̤̱̳̼̐̍̈̀̅̓̓̿͛̾̋̾̌͛̇̌͋̌̍̃̃́̂͐̄͘̚͝͠­̧̥̜̬̟͙͉̭̻͈͉̲̪͔̬̼͉̲̜̭̻̣̪̫̩͜͜ͅ­̡̢̳̠̙͚̯̜͉̭̤̫̻̦͜͜ͅͅ'̶̄̈́̄͑̈̋͑̈́̇͗͋́̂͘̕͝͝­̢̱̼̗̙̠͕͕̞̻̽̆̽͌̈̂̇̃̀̈́̀́͋͆͝͝͠­̨̧̡̟̝͔͙͎̘͙̩̙͍͓̼̱̠̗̥̯̺͈̝͔̭̳̣̙̜͉̦̞̩͚͔̣͜ͅ­̢̢̦̗̹̪̮̮̟̞̥͍̟͇̠̳͍̲̬̭͎̜̝͍͜ͅ­̢̰͙̗͈̝͕̞̻͉͍͚̦̟͖͚̪̰͉͔͇̜̭̥͇͕̜̼͙̪̺̮̘͇̜̫̞̜ͅ­̨̨̦̹͓̱̗͓̻̻̰̯̥͍͕͙̖͎̳̙̞͓͇ͅͅ­̮͖̜͚̭̱̘͙͕̘̼̮͓͜'̵̏̄̔̓̓̎͌̊̈́̿̅̀̄̏̄̈́͆̀̌͗̅̕͝­̊́́̅̈̀̆̍͂͂͌̊̑͂͗͐͌̏̑̾̀͆̚͝­̛͛̉̾̔̈́̿̓͗̈́̔̊̌̈́̄̉͒͌̍̒̈́̋͊͒̊̔͑̽̾̍̍̒͐̋̄̑͘͘̕̚͠­͕͍̦͖͓̬̟̘̫͇͙̲̪̰̭̘̬͇̥̮̇̅ͅ­͓̟̪͈͜'̸̗͔̝͍̮̗̫͔̹̘̪̖̻̙̠̣̭͚̦͔̩̺̞̳̥͖̬͉͚̍̒̈́̌͜ͅ­̡̨̢̼̲̰̩̻̙̗̳̻̣͙̫̬̰̖̺͍̺ͅ­̡͍̩͉̗͕̖̟͓̭̮͖̙̰̣͜͜ͅ'̴̀̍̇́̄̎͐̊̄̀̇́͗̍͂̓̾̓̀̎̕̚͝­̛̉͛́͗̐̏̑͐͋̍̆̀͗̈́̽͗̍̕͠͝­͂͛̈́̈́̉̌̓̊̌́͒̂̓͂̈͛̍͒́̂͒̈́͌̈́̽͋͛͌̿͂̀̽̾̅̓̕̚̚̕̚̚̚͝͠­̛̇̎̀̽̂̌͂̒̈́͋͛̏͑̊͂̈́̚̚͠­̨̛̙̝̋͌͂̑̿̽̔̉̍͗̄͛́̈́̀͌͛̔̈̋̆͆͗͐̅͌̏̎̉̾̀̓̎̕̚͘͘͠͠͝͠­̢̫̼͙̺̪̮͍͕̖̱͓̜̖̤͖̲͉͜­̢̧̧̢͈͔͍͓̞̙̤̝͖͉̟̲͎̙͕̘̦̠̝̳̤̰̱̮̻̪͖̺̘̬̬̪̰̙̗̺̳̙̘͓͜ͅ­̨͚͇͇͓̼̳͓̦͙̞͓̦̰̗͎̦̲­̨̢̧̢̨̨̡̣̭͚̥̮͖̺͇͚̖̖̞̤̬̲̙̗̲̯̰̙͍̬̳̗͍̹͓͉͔͚͉̣̹̦͙̪͜͜͜­̧̪̤͔̗̠̺̳̻͔̳̤̙̘̠ͅ'­̴̋̃̈́̅̉́̈́̀́͒̃̈͐̒͋́͋͑́̅͛̃̔̑̎̈́͊̈͋̈͐̄͑͂̉̉̊͗̿̚͘̕͝͝͠͠͝­̛́̅̃͋͂̊̀̾̉̋̃̏̚͘͝­̢̢̧̛̪̩̱͍̖̰̬̻͚͖̟͉̻̙̯̜͈̖͓̠̱͇͈̼͙̹͉̲̹̮̗̲̟̹̈́͆̈́̒̽̎̓̌̚̕͠­̧͔͍͈̗̝̱̮̹͔̭͉͕͉̫­̡̱͈̙͖̣͍͈̪͓̘̤̤̹͕͈̞̺͖͍̞̹̲̦͕̬͕̣̼̹̘̜̰̱̙̮̙͇͚͖͉̦̰͎̺͔̞̘̬ͅ­͔̬̳̼̩̪̜̤͚̱̺̣̖ͅ­̢̡̺͍̤͙̗͙͙̬͕̺̟̙͎͎͚̜̹̣̬̠̣͍̘̞̖̺̫ͅ'̵̓͋̈̿̊̌́̾̋̆̑̇͂͋͒̀́̕̚­̏͐̄́̊̄̍̎͋̐̒̀̈́­̨̨̨̣͖͖͓̗͚͙͖̜̳͖͚̗̘̞̯̻͖̱̘͕̩̜̙̥̙̻̰̬͎̩̟͚̱̰̠̰͙̜̭̤̄̐̋̓͜͝ͅͅ­̺̮̬̩̣̣͙̯͔̖̳͕­̨̡̨̡̧̯͉͕̥̙̭͓͔͍̭̖̤͙͓̤̗̯͕̺̣͍͍̙̣̤̜̭̼̙̪̞̥̻͓̗͎̻̪̪̻͙̻͇̪̼̭̥ͅ­̨̨͕̮̘͉̻̱̪͚͖­͈͕̦̥͕'̴̛̛́̐̀̔̇̋̄͛̄̏̈͂̎̌̓̒̐̉̀͆̏̈́̃̍͊́̐̉͌̑̉̆͆͊̽̀̒͒̈́͘͘̚͝͠͝­̽͗̇̎̿́̐͋̾͠­̦̰̹̺͖̼̺̪̫̫̜̲̮̰̼̝̞̪̖̻̈͒͗̔̽͌̐̔̐̈́́̅͒͋̊̈́͋͌͊̈́̀̓͊͂̐̂̽͂̈́̓̈́̓̀͝ͅ­̼̰̟̫̣͚̬͜ͅ­̨̢̨̧̢̢̢̨̢͍̼͇̤͉̳̰͔̭͎̖̜̜̞̞̣̺̙̫̪̩̠̯̘̪͉̪̜̗̟̫̺̹̪͙͜ͅ'̴̛͒͗̅̍̌̆͝­͛̅̋̃́̋͋̕­̨̧̡̡̤͔̻̗̯̭̹̬̭̖̤̬̭̫̞͉̖̪͈̳̪͙͕̺̻̹̯͎̫͙̰͖̭̠̣͈͕̞̫̭͎͓̱̎̐́͑̂̐͗̚͝͠­̗̞͍͖͎͓͉­̡̡̡̡̨̣̻͖̰̞̩̟͕̜̱̭͔̞̦̜̙̲̺͚͖͙̞̞̰̬̳̹̤̪̳̲̖͕̯̮̟̖̝̙͍̦̞͜
̶͑́̽̎́͊̀͗­̼̰̣͓̦̼­̨̢̨̧̨̮̤̗͍̼̩̰͕̗̭͙̭̠̲͎͉͍̲̜͇̭͖̦̞̳̜͙̠͇̘̤̭̼͕̱͉̻̟͕͍̲̦̱̺̮̪̯͕̳͜ͅͅͅͅ­͈͚̪͉̭­̢̢̡̢̡̨̨͉͚̱̼̲͔̺̥̺͉̞͎̮̝̜̣̰̥̗̹͎̞͓̠̝͉̲̩͔̪̥̜̱̹͚͖̥͍͈͔̪͉̹̲͓̹̬͖̹̣͜͜ͅ­̡̠͉̦­̨̨̰̣̺̲͉̣͚͉͈͎̜ͅ'̴̛̔͑̈́̔̔̿̅̔̇̊̋̓͂̈́͊̇̃̉́̆͑͊̈̀̔̈́̊̓̋̀̾͊̒̍̄̓͑͆̽́̕͝͝͠­̓͋̚­̒̄̈͆͌͆̿̏͒̿̋̍̓̓̂̅͒͊͂͂̇͒͊̿̎̀̌̈̊̋̔̊̃̈́͌̾̆̋̀̈́̑̓̊͂̿̽̋͛̃̈̀̀̈́̓̍̂͘͝͠͠͝͝­̎̕­̡̢̧̧̡͕͇̼̫͖̗͖͔̱̣̩͚̭͓̫̙͕̘͚̻̗͕͓͇̪̩̞̗̬̺̠̫̳̪̞̦͍̜͚͍̬̪̘͙̟͙̩̬̻͇̬̯̞̐̄̑ͅͅ­̮­̨̡̨̡̢̡̧̡̗͍̲͎̝̭͔̘̼͓͓̖̠͚̣̫͈͉̭͉̬̠̞̮̥̜̻̹͓̲̮͖̯̺̖͕̮̙͎̼̬͎̲̲͙̦̺͉̟̙̘͜͜ͅͅͅ­­̧̧̱̱̞͉̮̬̦͉̭̠̠̼̫͓̬̬̬'̴̨̗̞̯̩̩͍͇̖̘̪͇̻͈̗̠̥̖̗̩̘̲̜̦̗̌͌͊̔͌̈́͛͋͋̏̒̎̎͆͘͜͠ͅͅ­­̨̨͎̺͈̺͙͙͉̫̤͈̻̳̖̺͎̼̗̼̤͔̞̳̭̫̼̘͇͔͚͎̹̱̮̖̣̱̜͕̗̤̰̺̺̘̜̲̰̰̗̟̟̬͈̮͈̖ͅ'̴̆̀͠­͗­̛̛̛̆̓͑̊̑̒̀̀̈́͊̂͌̉̐͑͂̈́̀͂̔̓̌̍̃̈͊͑̀̿̍̔̄̓̉̓̆͆͛̂̅̇́̐̑̀̐̽̿͋̓̄͘̕̚͘͝͠͠͝͠­̃͗­̛̀̐̂̃̊̾͊̆̉͐̉̌̋͒̋͒̊̾̓͋͆̅̐̀́̿̀̇̍̐̽͐͒̃̿̽͌̈́͌̈́͂̂̏̓̔̒̅͑̒͆́̒̒̚͘͘͘̚͘͝͠­̯̓ͅ­̢̧̨̡͔̜̫̗̟̳̹͖͔̭̭̙̹͍͚̙̯̼̳̰̰̫̥͇̼̗̝͓̣̤̮̙̦̳͓͇̞͇̪̗͇͖̳̱̺̫̠̭̣͙̝̯̯̭̖͖̯­̨̻̤͔­̡̹̘̻̺̟͎̼͔̻̬͙̟̖̼͇͚̞͕̱̯͖͙̫̟̝̬̩̫̼̼͚̠̝͈͎͈̬͇̤̙͜'̸̛͂͊̽́͋͒͋͛̒̅́̃́͘͝­͐̈́̓̓̚­̡̤̙̹͇͚͈̮̣̟͔̤̙̱̙͍̜̪̪̱̤͍̼̌̏̄͐̐̈̌̀͌̿̐̊͗̅̂̓̌͑̓̈́͐͑͒̐̅̌͂̾̉̈́͜͝͝͝͝͝­̪͕͈͍̯̰­̧̨̡̧̨̜̻̞̦͎͎̫͙̱̤̲̰̳̹͖̹̩͓̤͕̠̫̩̹̖̞̼͍̙͖̜͓̪͚̙̰͍̭̼̜̙̳̲̳̰̦̭̲̹̰̗͜ͅ­̧̡̬͓̺̙̥­̡̡̨̡̡̻̞̪̰̠̘̣̟̹͈̤̙̲̝̖͔̮̖̻̘͙̼̮̳͉̺̖͇͇̗̗͇͓̗̩͉̖͚̳̹̣͕̘͕͖̟͙͔͖͇ͅͅ­̝̙̱͕̠̖͍̜­͉̣'̴̛͛͊̎̓͛̓̈͒̅́̆͌̌̀͌́͒̈̈́̅̀̈́̈̍̒͂̾̉͐̑͆̈͊̄͊̏̾͋̑́̉̽̚̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͝­̛̈́͛̈́̉̉͘͝­̡̨̧̛͔͍̹͙̪̬̯̭͊̿͆̆͐̑̇̂͐̿̑̆͗̏͋́̎̈́͊̃͆̄̽̀̏̉̿̇̌͆̓͌͐͛̀̚̕̕͘̚͝͠͝­͍̙̗̣̪͎̦̠̲̭­̡̢̪̬̣͔̮̦̦̜͚̝͔̳̹͓͉͈̦̙͈̠̻͓̖̝͜͜ ̸̡̨̡̛̛̳͕̠͔̮͓̺̤̟̰͖̖̙͙̖̭̓̇͐̀̃͋̉̇̀̾̃͊̔̂̐̎̎͋̃͂̔̑̊͌̉̇͂̌͋̀̋̀̏́̓̾̚͘͠͝͝͠ͅ­­̙ ̶̢̦̤̺̦̫̫̣̦̙̳̰̰̭̘̻̹̝̟͐̀̈͛̐́̅̓̉͆̅̌̄͗̿͑̽̿̀̆͂͑̇̿̏̍͗͌̎̆̈́̊̔̈́́̏̏̏̄͘͘̚͜͝ͅ­­̨̢̡̱̤̰̥̥̠̯̞̣͓͔͖̮̫̹͙̭͎̼̦̣͕̲͇̹̯̲̦͎͜͜ ̸̡̧̛̰̰̭͗̈́̏̈̊͐̓̎͆̎̂̃͒̊͂̿̅́̀̓͗̌͆̽͗̑̊͆̆͑̊̈́͗̇̾̆̄̇̎̔̓͑̉̌̾̑͑̿̇̅̚̕̚͝͝͝͠ͅ­­̧̢̨̨̨̦̞͔̲̠̝̰̹̺͓̯̲̯͓̹̖̺̼̜̪̜̪̖̱̦̤̳̤͓̦̟͈̤̹̱̰̟͎̳̗͕͖̪͙͔͓̯̠͔͉̪̳̘̭̮̺͜͜ͅ­̟­̨̡̢̧̡̱͔̹͕̝͍͎̘̦͓̰̩̟̘̯̝̣͓̳̹̜͎̤͓͚̜͙͙̯̤͔̳̬̳̺͜ͅ ̷̓́͛̇̓̈̐͒̈́̍̏̌̈́̀͋͐̅́͌̇̓̊͐͂̐́͆͗̋͑̌̑̽̄͐̎̒̔͒̔̀̾̇̌̐̍̎̏͑̓̃͆̀̈̊̆̚͘̚̕͝͝͠͠­­̛̛̔̏̍̽̉̌̑͊̈́̊̓̿̈̿̐̽̈́̅̓̂̋̌̉̽͌̽̾͗͋̆̄̀̌̔͒̍̾͂̿̽̓̂̄̓̍̏͋̔͂͘̚͘̕̕̕͘͠͠͝͝͠͝­̆­̨̬͔̬͕̹͇̹̦͙̱̻̤͔̪͔̖͓̻̩̯̱͓̰͍̦͖̜͖͉͙̭̯̈͊̽́̓͊̒̊́̂̿̎̂̽͂̀̾̒̑̓͋͑͂̚̕͜͠͠ͅͅ­͕̪­̡̧̧̡̩͍͍̙͍̜̭̻̹̫̗̹͍͚̠͔̲͙̥̜̺̩̬̙̝̭̲͕̮̹͓͉̪͍ͅͅ ̶̨̛̭̘̲̜̥̯̤̣̟̩̖̺͇̰́̔̈̇̍̓́̾̉̎̈́̉͒͐͌́̃̐͆̄̂̀̓̈́̊̓͆̔̏̓̎̇̔͗̑̿̆̒̓̐̏̏͒͛̈́̚͝͠­­̡̡̨̡̡̡̧͍͉̠͍̥͎̭͕̲̙͇̼̳̦͖̠̥̺͇͔̤̩̻͚̖̣̜̭͎̰̩̜̻̘͕̺̻̱̜̩̲̩͔̗̺͖̯̬̻͕̻̗̤̬̲ͅͅ­̼­̧̙̹̻͔̗͈̙̣͖̗̖ ̷̨̢̢̹͕̣̟͚̣̝̜̳̣̟̠͖̹͈̋̊̾̂̿̀͂̃͆͐͋̿̃̊̃̈̂͐͋̈́̌̿̄̽̃͑̀̑̊͘͘͘̕̕̚̚͜͜͝ ̶̡̢̛͙̼̥͈̈̀͒̅͆̒͋̄̂̑̇̃͋͗̉̇̊̀͐̌̑͗̿͆͊̀́̑́̑̆͂̀̏̆̈́̔̒̂͂̈́̑̀͂͗̄͂̈́̈̑̐̍͘̚͝͠͠­­̧̨̡̧̡̢̧̬͓͇̞͓͖̯̬̮̫̠̟̯͕͕̼͕̼̺̰͇̬̙̥̤̙̻̠̦͇̘̤̙̯̲̮̲̲̼̰͎͍̹̼͚̭̩͍̜͍͍̭̭̖̦̘͜­̺­̧̧̡̢̢̢̮̳̯̰̱͚̣̬̼̻͍̤̬̤͖̰̮̳̜̤̩̫̝͉̲͔̘̣̯̣͚̱̝̭̗͈̘͙̙̱̗͈̫̲̹̥͔̬̝̳̣͍͍̞̺̹͜­̙̳­̡̗̮̲̮ ̸̛̒̂̏̀̀̓̆̀̊̍̔̿͒̀͋̀̄͒͆͆̔̂͂͐̓̌̒̓̂̏͌̈̌̎̎̅́̍̌̄̈́͂̌̍̅̎̇̎̆́̆̐̈̕͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝­­̡̧̨̧̡̢̫̳͉̖̼͙͉̮̘̣̬̟̖̱̩̩̤͉̠̰̫͔̺̼̙͎̠͉̻͙̫̞̥̟͕͕͇̬̩̳̮͚̥̻̋͜ͅ ̷̛̛̛̛̛̛̋̉̀̿̓̾̿̀̓̑̾̎̄̉͊̈́͗̈́̇̈̐͋̈́̀͒͌͂̒̎͋̆̆̓̒̈́͆̔̑̊́̏͆̏̅͐̈́̔͛̓̚͘̕̚͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̛̛̍͂͗̿̈́͌̽̀̂͗̀͌̀̈́̀̋̓̀̍͂̒͐̌̈̋͛̿̎̎̊̄͆̈́̈́͆̓̈́̽͒̀̔͆̀̋͒͆̀͂̿́͊͛̆̽̓͐̕͘͝͠͝­̆­̡̘̝̣̾͗̍̏̽̾͊̄͆̄̂̇̎͠ ̷̛̛̈́͂͗̏̓̌̇̍̄̇̈̊̊͌̎͐̿͊͗̏̓̄̋̋̅̔̀͋̓̀̓́̾͑̒́́̌̌̿͊̈́̀̀̀̐͌̉̂̅́̃́̚̕̕͝͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̛̈́̊͆̐̆̅̈́̽̅̆͒̓̀͑̇͂̌̃͊̀͌̏̍͗̾̅̈́͊̌̂̎͑̉͆́͐̎̆̾̐̿̅͗̔̈́̔͋̓̔̔̍̕̕̕̚͘͘̚̚͝͠͝­̄­̧̢̨̢̛͕̩̤̞͚͕̺̪͕̖͎̮͙̺̳̻͉̖͙̝̞̬̭̙̯͖͈͚͉̣͎̪̦̹̯͔̭̦͔̣͆̀̒̐̈́̿͑̎̊̒̿͐͑͗̊͜͠͝­͓̥­̢̡̡̢̨̠̤̝͓̭̱̟̫͔̙̣̭͓͙̣̦̬̤͉͍͓̞̣͈͓̙̪̞̦̱̪͉̙̘̹̠̠̹̙̜͕̲̪̺̜̥͙͇͖̜̹͖̱̟͙͜ͅ­̮̰̜­̢̡̲̖̺̲͇̯̫͈̪̳̳̘̩̜̙̗̞͚̰͜ͅ ̷̍̉̓̋̎̒̅̃̆̑́̇̆̉̃͋̀́͗̀̅̈́̇̌͂̈̈̓̄̈́͋͌̀̾̿͐̽̔̓̏̈̌̓̉̐̌͒̃͂̒̊̚͘͘͘̚̚͘̕͝͠͠͝͝­­̛̈̋̃͂͒́̀͑̍͂̋̃͊͒̄̑͒̈́͒͋̇́͒̃̽̔̂̋͛̏͒̇̆́͗̋̈́̋̀͌̒͊̿̃̓̈́͛̌̑͆̾̔͑̃̇̃̏̏̒̇̕͝͠­̄­̨̧̢̨̨̛͎̼̤̩̝̳̞̦͇̬̰̦̥̟̺̤̞̯͓̱̠͖̟̙̺̫̗̠͙̹̼̲̗͚̬̝̙̬̞̒́́̅͛̀͂̓̔̾̂̇̚̚͘̚͜͜­̝̭­̹͔̱͇̞̹̜̗͔͙̼̺̞̜̰̫̟̤ ̴̛̀̌͌̔͒̄͌̏͗͑̓̆̉͌͗́̀̋̉͗̑̃̍͗̈́̈́̈́͆̔̐̄͆̈́̇͌̉͗́̌͋̈̈́͌̃̓̿̿̐̓̏̓̈́͘̚̚̕̕̕͠͠͝͠͝­­͛̐̓͊̀̎̀̄̓͒̇͛́̄̌͒̉̃͛̒̌̋̄̓̄͐̏̂͊̏̔̈̋̇́̄̍̈́͋̿̔͑̓̓̊͐̈́̅̽̔̒̀̽̉́̎͂̂͘̕̚̚͝͝­̕­̢̢̧̢̧͇̣̥͉̥͉̥͓̼̺̺̱̝͚̱͔̫͍͔̦̘̭̖͇̼̞̭͎̤͍̠̼́̃̓̈́̀̽̿͛́̓͆̈́́̆̄̍̃͑͘̕͘͝͝ͅͅͅ­̤̳­̨̨̢̱͚̬̘̞̜̞̥̜̤̙͚̙̳̹̻̝̫͖̟͖̤̗̲̥̲̦̯̮̱͓̳̣̩͜⸸̡̯͘ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊𝚵̤̠̾𐎚̖̣̟̳̹̒̾𝔁ᕸ̢̣͙̙̎⪴Ⳗ” ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊ “̹̤̎͜𝓢̜̳̅𝕀⎔̟̤̿̾𝙥̨̟̎̕͞🞛⻬͕͡𝓩͉͝🜅𝒻͙𝓚̧̛̩̝̱͖̲̲̌͒⛶̫̑𝙸̔”


There—        ­­            no, that’s not him.               A mother’s final lullaby.  Still               beautiful.                   Not              him.
Another—                   hope torn      from a dying prayer. Still                  warm.     Not                   him.
And then—              
  I inhale—

—and feel it tear through me like lightning.
A grief so profound           I nearly collapse.

I can’t see                     them,                  
            these memories,        
                                        him.


­­“⥶̵̴̼̪̫͙̠̬̜̙̐͒̔͋̕͟҂⩮̬͖͟͞͞⟉⻼̦͍̲͖̝̲ͪ̓̎͝ⴸ̨̠̒̾⧇⧉̵̣͔̠̥̦̣̮̺̜̬̗̥̔͌͟͜”
“­⛒­͕̎͢𝓢̛̛̟̟̽̿🜂⻖̵̡̯͓̳͉͕̦̬̙̞͛͊̀̀́͒͋̓͜h̴̴̶̪̫͍̙̠͖̣ͭͩ̐ͭ͊́̅ͫ͟­̠̦͊͒̉͋͛͟­̸̢̠͍̩̖͕̒̈́̃́̓͢uņ̷̡̮̬͈̘͕̫̘̓̾ͥ̓ͦ̏ͣ͜͟\̵̵̧̛̦̩̲͍̖̪̯̙ͤ̍́͂ͮ͐ͨͦ­͕̟ͫ̊̃ͭ͟­̶̵̧̫͓͍̤̃ͦ͗̒ͯ́̉ \̵̧͎͓̖̭̘̙̪̝̪̬͉̳̃ͬ̂͗̽ͫͧ͊̔ͨͩ̈ͭͦͮ͋̓͌̀̑̉͒̏̕͜͞\̴̷̧̹̳̟̝̇̔͊̒ͮ́́ͤ͊̄ͣͣͬͩ̕͢­­̴̢̡͔͖̗̘̘̩̙͉̉ͥ͗́́̕\̛̠̪̳̲͉͍̻͍͚̣̟̳̯͓̦̩͕̓̅ͭ̔ͮ̒̊ͥ̌̓̿ͮ̀ͫ̀̾̑̀̚͡͡͝ͅ\̦͚̒͑­̘­̴̢̢̼̼͚̱̲͈̠ͣ͐̎͂ͨͫ́ͪ̄̚͜\̷̷̡̢̨͙͉̮̠͓͛̽ͫ͐ͬͥͬ̒̎̓͠\̶̠͍̙̣̣͇̖ͫͩ̌͒ͪ̿ͮ̅̐͜͞­̬̤­̺̇\̴̷̵̡̛̪̦̹͖̠̲͎͖̙̗̮̪͚̯̟͓̞̱̤̤̤ͨ̍ͨ͑̊̄̏ͧ͐̾̑̄ͦͮ̊̇̈͛̋̎ͥ̐ͮͩ͘̚͟͞͡𝙀̠̯­̼̕­̹̗͓⃧̕͜⾁͗͌”
“⧶̵̹̩͎͕̣̹̿̏ͩ⛓̛̼͈̟̦̒ͦ̽𝑴̴̲̻͍̰͝ ̴̝͚́̇̀͗̓͆̉͝͝ ̷̱̠̐̈́̃͛̀̈͗̆͘ ̸̡̪͉̰̼͓͙̻͕̄̀͌͒̐̃̅͐͐͜͝ͅ ̵̬͎̻̺̩͍̤̓͒̍̀̏̽ ̷̢̧̖̝̭̖͚̩͕̥̜̪̓̽🝑⺙̡͕̫͙̻͉̬̾̓͢͞͝⪩̨̺̖̰͐͜­͉̱ͣ”
“ ̵̢̨̻̘̙̜͈̼̮̫̫̙͎̯͍̱͙̭͖̣̝͇͎̌͆̈́͋̃͐̿͑̽̑̂̃̋͋̓̌͑̅̎͒͋̔͑͊̀̓̅̉̓́͒͂͛̾͘͘̕̕͠͝ͅ­­̧̹̱̪͈̲̘͙͈̻͇̜̭̪͉͙͇͉̳̘͍͔ͅͅ ̶́͛̉̽̓̍̓̾̑̉͑̉̽̊͋̊̿͂̿̈̋́̓͆̒̏̅̂͐̓́̂̇̄̀̆̎͐̐̐̐̍̄̈́̔̔͌̏̈́̈́̔̀̀̀̾̒̆́̈͘̚͝͝͝­­͉̪̗͕̠̤̳̰̬͗̾̍̀̍̆́̽͑̽̇̓̒̓̀̓̈̐̽͆̔̑̊́̽̽̾̉̈̌̃̆̍̌͐̑͊̑̊̕̚͘͘͜͠͝͝͝͠͠͝ ̷͕̺̗͎͖͕͚͉̜͕̺͔̮̼̘̺̼̲̦̣̻̓͛̇͐͛́̔̇̾̌̀́̋͛͊̀͗͆̒̈́͆̅́̀̿̀̿̃̋͂̓̓̑̀̄̑̉́̇̕̚͝ͅ­­̡̨̧̧̧̨̢̦̦͍̫͍̲͈̙͔͉͓̖̫̫̗͉̭̝̱̳͔̳͓͇̮̩̭̯͉̤̖̟̳̬̙̹̞̥̬͉̫͙̯͓̩̜̺̤̮̬͙͎̠͎͜ͅͅ­̱­̨̨̹̼̺̖͉͔̼̲̳̪͈̮̱͉̠͖͎̗ ̷̨̢̭̘͖̳̙̳̻̣̪̳̮̝̺͔̼̬̪͚̗̪̗͔̰̩̠̮̥͍̪͇̘̥̜̲̤͔̣͖͐̒͌͑͛̿͌̂̌̏̏̑̇͆̔̾̈́͘͘͜͝ͅͅͅ­­̨̨̧̡̡̥͕̥͖̮̞͓̹̣͉̜̻̙̻̫̖͚̖̮͎̲͇̮͔̮̯̭̪̻̖̬̣̻̲̟͉̖̻̥͕̙̠̣̖̬͉̞͈͕̹͕͉̪͔͖̞͜ͅͅ­͙­̨̢̨̧̡͔̙̬̭̼͈̤͍̻̗̼̭̹͉̹̫̞̭̻̬̮͈̩̘̳ ̸̆͌͗̀̉̅̆̐̓̈́̈̀͒͌͌̽̔̏̀̄̓̽͂̔͂̔͒͑̎̃̎̈́̆̓́̇̿͗͋̑́̓͌̽͆̄̀̈́́͋͂́̀̈́͑͊̒̅́̕̚͝͝͝­­̨̡̢̪͈̹̠͎͎̺͚̻͖̣͎̯͈̳͙̟̗̣̺̟̟̦̫̯͓͖̺̀̓̎̎͜ͅ ̷̛̆̊̆̔̈́̐̀̂̀̓͂̈́̐̈́͒͛͂̑̽̐̐̈́̉̽̓͋̇̀͗̄̑̉͗̃̊͆̓̒̾̑͑͊̂̈́̌͌͗̈́͑̈́̄̃̔͗̊̓͂̐́̕͘͝͠­­̨̞̘̫̟̠͖̲̼̈̐̌͂͊̈́̆͐̿̂̏̇͌̃̽͗̈́̀̌̿̊̍̈́̐̽̎̎̂̈́͌͊̄̉̌͌́́̈́̒̒̄̐͋̾̓̕͘̚̕͠͝͝͝͝ͅ­̜­̢̢̨̡̧̦͙̹̦͕̺̝̝̝̲̱͚͍̹͎̫̗͕̘͉̘̟̰̘̘̪̱̰̻̗̝͕̬̲͕̺̺͕̮̬͕̯͖͔͙̩͙͍̦̮͎̪̮̺͎̬̼ͅ­̦͙­̧̨̧̡̪̮̖̙͔̯̬̻̝͎̗̦̳̳̰̦͇̭͇͎̜̘͙̪̼̘͈͔̭̮̪̜̭̙͈͎̤̭̬͓̯͓͈͔̰͍̜̲̱̼͓͖͉̠̘ͅ ̷́̅͒͋̉͂̾̓̔͑̎͗͆̿̀́͗̊̎̃̎̎̇̓͋̽̑̎͗͐̅̌͊͒̐̎̄̎̇̐̊͑̔̍̊̐̊̏̇̀̃̃̓͊̄́̋͊̐͒̔͘̕͝­­̛͖̹͚͉̲͓͚͔̘̳͎̪̖̟̟̘̣͈͇̫̆͑̿̉̽͋̈́́̌́̈͛̌͂͘͜͠͝j̵̛̛̺̘̳͐̌̀̎̽͋͗͌̓́͌̓̓̀͘̕͝͠­̱­̨̨̨̡̡̢̡̝̭̲̠̹̳̥̺̠̪̱̘̟͎͕̻͇͙̤͖͍̝͈̪͔̜̞̫̠̗̝̙͔̹̝̬͈̗͕̮͙͈͍̩̯̰̙̝̮̳͜͜ͅͅͅͅ­̤̪­̧̢̧̧̢͍̭͈̥̰̲̖̥̺̟̯̖͓͎̦͈͚̼̖͙̟͚̻̖͉̟̩̟̜̠̲͍̜̼̮̙͕͈̺͜͜͜͜-̶̎͂̉̈́̾̇̑̍̓̄̀͝­̉̉͂­̛̈́͑͐̾͐͊̍̅̅͌͑̅̿̂̎̀́̈́̈́̾̆̈́̿̓̅̏̽͑͊̈́̈́̌͆͛̀̅̆̓̒̔̓͛̇̊̆̌͌̈̂̌͒́́̕̕͘͝͠͝͝­̔̑̚̕­̢̛̳͔͍̘̟̪̈̉͊̀̀̍̊͗̿͒̄̈́̈́̂̀̅̈͛͊͒̊̍̀̓́̏̀͊̌̍́͐̑̿̐͒́̆̑̓́̌͊̒͊̚̕͘͘͠͝ͅ­̨͓̲͙̩­̧̧̢̲̬̱̰̜͇̯͙͍̖̪̮̩̦̜̺͓̣͕͙̜̲̘̲͎̲̖͈̥̝͖̪̳͕̖̟̯͚̝̭̪̖̖̞͍̗͕̦͚̯̣̮͎͜ͅͅ­͙̥͇̥̤ͅ­̨̨̧̧̠̟̻̤̗̥̲̹̜̟̺̙̜͇̦͎̙̞̺̦̭͖̬̗ͅ-̵̞̠̩̫̟̜͇̠̓͌͒̾̇̈̿͛̈́̾͛̿̋͘͠͝͝͝͝­̢͔̻̭̠̻͜­̨̡̡̙͈͕͔̥̣̰̭̻̯̯̤̭̭̘͜(̸̛̛̇̏͋͗̈́̀̽̑͒́̐̈́̀̀͐̍̒́̌͒̍͆̊̔͒̂͋̐̚̚̕͘͠͠­̒̇̆̈́̐́̐̂­̛̀͒̂͋̓́̆́͐̆͌͆̃̏̏̆̓͐̉͌̅̄́͒̏̉͋͊͛̾͑̐̏͆̐̆̉͒̃̋̒̎̈́̓͆͑͗̐̒͌̚͘͝͝͝­̊͆͗̅͆̒̏̕̕­̨̨̧̧̪̯͓̺̬̭̣̥͕͔͉̖̳̝̰͔͈̱̞͍̠͇̰̖̜̲̻͇̥̯̝̺͍̭̎̈̏̿̐̇̇̽̉̌̈́̈́́͑̃́̿­̨͖͔͔̰͔̰̖̥̥­̨̡̡͍͖̹͕͉̗̜͕̲̦̪͕̳̗̻͉̖̻͔͍͙̰̼̺̤͙̦̼̼͎̝̲̭̲̙̫͜ͅ)̸̛̿̄͒̃̋̒̓͐͌͘­̋̿́̅̑͋͂͛̒̊͝­̛̛͑̆̔͒̿́̒̈́̌̏̀̃̄́̅̑͑̉̽̃̿͐̎̍̔̀̐̑́͑̿̈̏̓̽̐̃͐̿͗̋̑̉͂̀̉̒͛̕͘͝­̧̮̻̞͖̲̗̟̀̎̔̕­̡̨̧̱̲̰͎̭̠͍͎͈̗̥̼͎̟̻̺̪͈͇̞̲͎̦͈̰͚͉͎̭̮̻͖̫̲̜̪̭͎̬̹ͅ)̷̍̊̆̕͝͝­̃͑̑̌̌̓̀̅̉̎̕̚ͅ­̧̡̧̢̼̩̳̞̥̰̭̖̤̮͈͕̞͇̘͎̠̥̤̥̥̞͓̗͍̥̪̦̙͖̺̘̰̬͈̪͈̬̫͎̠̮̣̯̮͜͜­̡̧͉̳̯̗͙͈͙̫̜͖͜͜­̡̧̧̨̡͇̥̥͈̱̰͚̫̩̭̙̯͓̼̹͕͎͈̗͔̜͈̟̹̻̰͖̥͓͍͕̩̼̮̤̹̟͉̼͇̤̬̲͜ͅ­̝̤͍͇͜ ̴͇͎̘͈̙̫͚̳͋̈́̈́̓͒̕͝ ̸̛̛̛̛͆̇̅͂̔͐̂̓̋̀͌̿͋̇͐̽͛̿̌̀͐͌̄̈́̆̈́̏̆̆̀͆̇̀̈́̿͂̿͗̈́̒̂̈́̓̍͒́́̀̇̿͋͋̾͘̚̚̕͘̚͠­­̧̰̻̜̥͍͓̗̝̳͚̫͙͎̝̭̲͕͖̰̩̱͍̺̣͕̬͔͕̻̙̺̣̞̟̱̬̣̠̆̇̀̍͂̓́̿̓͑̐̑̄͛͑́̒͛̃͘͝͝͠͝ͅ­̤­ ̶̛̛̛̏̈́̽̽͑͋̓̄̓̋̂͋̐́͆͐̿̉̀͛̏̌͊̑̆̽̐̇̉̃̈́͌̀͐́̇̀̓̃͌̋͒͐̽̈́̒́͐̋̐̊̂̓͌͒͘͝͝͝͝͠­­͇̪̹͈͔̝̗̪̣͔̲̯͍̠͗͒̓̿̆̒̏͛̉̈̽̄̏̂̔̍́̽̓͛̀̈͘̕̚̚͜͝͝ͅ ̴̛̯̰͎͂̈̆͐͒͗̔̀̀̂͑̔̂̊͋̓͛̌̏̿͛͗̏͑͌͋̓̊͗͋̅̿́͛́̑̂̀̈͌̈́̋̔͂̄̊̑̈̐̄͐̾͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠­­̨̡̨̡̡̧̘̻͕̖̲͕̬̞͙͙̤̬͖̯̭̱̜͎̘͉̰̰̤̙̞̩͓͉̟̙̮̭̲͔͓̗͍̭͕͉̪̙̠̺̜̩͉͓͎͚͍̩͍͎̟̗͜ͅ­̤­̡̡̡̬̗̦͉̘̪̤̼̪̖͎̗͓̺͎͕̤̮͖̯̯̥̙̜͈̙̗͎͙̰̬̮͜͜ ̶͇͖̇̍̓͗̈́̋̊̃̏̅͛̂̆͊̔̔̈́̊̽̓̈́̇̉̒͋͂͐͂͒̒͊͑͒̅͋̂͂̀͊̔̈̏͊͛̿̔̓̒͂̒̏̈́͛͘̚̚͠͝͠͠͝͝­­̢̧̲͕̗͎̫͉̥͉͈̩̺̰͔͕̗͓̺̫̳̻͕̤̼̥̫̤̟̣͇͙̥̭̯̬͎̥ ̶̡̧̡̛̛͓͙͔͉̮̟̞̳̞̪̣̘̦̰̬͖͙̆͆̌̎́͐̿͊̿̈́͆̂̐̊̇͆̋͛̊͆͒̆͆̀̏͑̇̎͒̃̀̕̚̚̚͘͜͠͝͝͝ͅ­­̡̧͍̹̤̮̖̩̗͎̜̘͓̯͙̯̞̜̣̦͓̺̜̜͈̣̬͇̹̼̞̩͔̮̝͓̹͎̹͈͔̙̳̣̹̥͜ͅ ̶̡̨̟͚͖͙͚̣̟̭͓̘͇̬̺̪̞̜̙̰͕̼̪̳̟̬͚͙̜̼̪͆̏͐̓͌̑̅͆̀̈́̾͊̀̈̐͆͘ ̸̛̂̄̈́̒̔̈̏̒̉̓̑̽͋̾̑̓̾̎͛̐̓̓̋̓̐̔̈́̄̋͛̂̅̓̓͊͑̈́͗́̊́̈́̈́͗̆̃̏̈́̈́̎̿̉̔̎́̏̏̕͘̕͠͝͝­­̛̤̜͖͓͗͗̿͑̒̽͑̈́̕ ̵̛̓͆̀̒̿͑̄͐̀͗̔̂̃͌̆͛̌̋̃̈́̔̈́̾̐̈́̆̈̊̒̀̏͂̓͌͒̽̈́̿̅͋̇̌̀̽͐̽͗̃̑̇͂̚̚̕̕̚͘͝͝͝͠͝­­̡̧̢̛̛͎̭̭̦͉̳͕̞̪̜̭̖̯͕̹͚̙̰̼̼̥̗̳̮͍̬̓̑̽̄̅̌͒̀̍͛͊͛̍̂́̐̊̐͒͗́̈́͂̒̏͌̍̈́̚͘͜͝͠­̭­̢̢̡̨̢̧̢̡̗̜̜̞̳̲̻̬̼͎̜͕̖̖̠̮̹̺̘̭̝̻̰̘̣̗̞̮̭͚̤̯̭͈̝̗̫̯̮̭̻͕̖̭̭͓̗͉̪͙͉͜ͅ ̶̛̛̿̌́̓̈́́̒͐̈́̽̑̆̉̊̏͑̐̾̊͊̅̒̓͌͐̆̊̌́̏̀̇͐͋͛̍̎̔͐̂͑̀̓́̆͒̏̏̓̿̔͊͗̅̈́͗̕͘̚͝͝͝­­͂͋̃̓̆͒̂̀͊̓͐͐̎̄̍̾̀̽̑̑̊̃͊̆̈́̒͊̈́͑̄͋͛͐̈́̍̊̉̂̽́̒͛͒̍̈̈́̈́͌̇͗͐̓͑̕͘̕̚͘͘͝͠͝͝͠­̈́­̧̡̨͍̳͎̲͚͇̗͕̱̳̻̹̟̻̠̦̫̳̪͈̻̣̺̜͕͚̠̪͕͕̭̻̰̝̪̩̳̱̩̼̲͎̩̦̮̪̮͚͖̳͇̯̥̬̹̣̬͙̐͜­ ̴̢̛̤̫̰̪̹͕͎̘̣̺̟̩͙͓͈̖̻̝̫̏̔̈́͊͌́͗͂̽͗̓͆͑͋̄͑̿̎̋̒͊̇̀͑́́̍͂̄̓̈̑̐̇̈̕͘̚͜͝͝͝ͅ­­̨̡̡̗͈̗͚̺̥̤͓̗͓͎̬̝̠̩͔̩̺̖̜͜͜ ̴̀͋̈́̅̃̓̉̀̓̇͐̈́͂́̏̆͗̒̄͑̾̊̉͋̂̿̆́̅̒̓͗͐͑͂̈́͂͒̀͋̓̀͒͆̔̐́͋́̑̄͒̀͒̕̚̕̚̕͝͝͝͠͠­­̛̜͗̽̋͋̓̈́́̅͐̒̅̀̍̓̉̀̊̓͊̆̀̾̽̆͒͌̅͋̍̽̎̃̌̇͆́͒̑̈́̎̾̇̿̎̈́͌̽͑̍͗̓̀̓̈́͐̕̚̕͠͝͝͝­̟­̨̡̡̧̧̧̨̡̬̭̟͖͉̳͕͇͖̫̺̱̦̥̤̻͉̮̫̥̱͙̲̯̠̫̣̜͖̠̲̝̺̘̦͇̻̼̝̺̝̰̻̬̭͓̦̦͔̻͙̠̙͜ͅ­̲̳­̡̢̡̢̢̡̡̧̡͔̤̪̞͈̼̫̳̺̼͙̝̼͇̳̖̤̖̗̯̜͙̳̮̭͙͍̗͔̠̻̘̻̼̪̯̯̘̤̥͔̗͙͜ͅͅͅ ̷̧̛̣̳̣̮̖͈̠͚̳͉͇̭͇̂̈̈́͂̉̍̔͑̐̓̿̃͑̑̃͒̓͆̋̅͛͗̓͂́̐͒̔̈́͐͐͂̆̆̄͊̐͂̂͗̑͌͒͘̕͠͝͝͝­­̡̡̨̫͎̰̲͇̺̙͈̙͜͜͜ ̷̢̨̡̨͇̠̰̣̺̥̦̳͚͈͔̘̤̱͖̘͉̤͉͚̩̘̲͖̪͍̲̭͇͚̻͎̤̱̠̾̑̾̅̉͛͌̽̋̽̋̄̍̐͗͌̄̈̊̎͑̓̚͠͝­­̢̧̢̧̨̧̼̻͍̼̹̥̰̥̝̩̫̰͚̺͚̟̖̥̻͓͍̟̝̦̭̘̲̟̺̘͖͙̹͇̹͖͎̞̪͚̠͍̣̘̜̜̰̘̭̻̘̜͎͜ͅͅͅͅ­̭­̧̧͚̗̮̬̯͎̼̹̹̗̬͙͓̟̰̠̟͇̩̯̲̰̗̲̯̳̘ͅ ̸͋̐̔͆́̄̌̐̈́̇͋̿̆̎̔̽̈̆͗̏̀̋̂̔̋̆͒́͐͒͐̑͐̆͋͌͐̈́̾̈͋̌̂̈̈́͗̑̂̆̈́̒́̊͛̐̕̕͘͝͝͝͠͠͝­­̛̛̦̻̑̔̿̃́̉̀̄́̇̽́̌̈̀̊̉̎̆̅̏͆͌̓̍̈́̍̎̆́̎͒̆͗̇̽̽͗̉̉͌̓͒̉̓̋͒̓͐̊̅̑̊̾͘̚͠͠͠͝­͕­̡̢̧̢̖͓̪̲̪̻̱̦̘̬̳̯͔̹̤̺̱̜̠͓̟͇͔̼̤̗̗̰͔̲̭̰͎̼͕͖͕͕͚̥̮̲̼͉͜ ̷̛̛̛̛̍̂͌́̍̅͗͋̊̽͑̿̄̇͌̀̎̈́̾̀̐̍̉̎́̈͌̂̏̈́̔̀̍̋̎̀̏̓̏͐̿̀́̾̀̄͆̈̂̒͗̓̚̕̕̕͝͝͝͠­­̡͈͖̦̝͙͓̳̤̰͚̰̭̜̬͓̺̣͉͍̘͍̠̣̞̣̪̯͕̙̓̐͊͜ͅ ̷̨̧̨̙͇̝̙͈̖͉̟͎̲͔̪̱͕̲̦̙̠͇̻͔̲̥̘̤̖͙̰͖͈̀͑̽̀́̃̊̉̀̒̐̔̃̽́͘͜͜ͅ ̴̡̡̢̨̡̛̛̤̲̰̠̣̯̰̜̜̪̮̪̟͓̤͉̳̟̠̝̹̙̜̲̖̾͛̑̓͐͊̎̌̀̄̌͂̓̉̍͒́̈̋̈́̀̌̈́̎͋̽̀̈͘͜͝͠­­̨̡̧̡̧͕͓̣͔̜̗̭̺̹̖̣̩̻̩̜͕͔͔͙͖͕̳̱̺̹͓̝̞͎̟̝͚̦͔̻̣̖̰̰̤̗̮͎̲͕͔̜͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅ ̶͆̉͊̀̒̋̐̎̀͌͒́͗̀̓̋̄̈̓͐̀͛̉̔͂́͑̆͂̽͌̀̀̌̾̑̏̅̆͒̍͐̀͒̈́́̉͛̈́̈́̇̎̾̅̆̄̕͘͝͠͠͝͠͝­­̛̛̤͙͚͎̙̰̯̮̣̳̭̊̓̈́̓̓͌̎̍̂̀͐̀̔͂̑̐̐̓̌̊̄͂̆̉̄̐̂̓͂̊̂͂́̅͊̆̏̈́̒̐͊̔̔͘̚̚̕͝͝͠ͅ­͓­̡̡̟͇̫̣̘̩͈̜͎͍̹̖͍̲͉͉͚̖̞̟̲͚͓̼͚̹͈͙̥͉̮̮̬̙̻͕̱̘͚͉̥̝͜ͅ ̸̨̦͎͎̪͈̺̤͍̼̣̲̗̩̼͙̱̪̰͎̤̘̀̉̆̈́̂̉̅͌̽̾͑̈́͌̎͋͊̆̿̾͌̀̋̀̽̂̈̋̊̑͐͑̽̿̏̈́́̕̚̚͜͜͝­­̲̪̳̬̖̞͓̬͇̺̼͕͓͎̱͉̺͎̼̟̬̩͇̹̞͈ ̶̅̔̽̎͗̎͂̏͊̎́̀͊̽̉̓́̒̐̏̓̐̄͛̔̈́̂͑̓̈́̓̈͋̈́̽̇͆̾̌̍̆͐̎̽̑́͐̌̎͊̌͗͋̀͐̏̓̂͒̒͒͝͝͝­­̡̧̨̨̧̤̥̮̯̲̬̝͎̻̮͈͇̘̮̬̞͓̪̲̱̫̱̤͓̣͉̮̄͐̀͌̔̓̊̈́̅̇̔̀̈́̽̏̉̈̂͛̾̊̓̿̔͑̔̀͘͘͠͝ͅ­̧­̧̨̡̢̡͍̭̥̞͇͕̹̖̱̰̙̤̰̤̝̮̱̭̤͕̹̭̣̭̞̣̼̝͚̠̤͉͉̠͔̹͈̖̳̗̣̥̪̖̱̟̞̳̮͙̺̟͓̠͙̬͍͜­͔̼­̢̨̡̢̨̙̗̱̪͚̫͕̣̩̙͍̹̪̼̣̖̺̭͈̻̩̞̤͙̯̱̞̖̞̠͔͈͜͜ͅ ̷̛̛̉̃͒̀̽͊̅͂̓͗̿̏̽̅́́̈̈́̈́̒̋̇̀͛̄͐̑̑͗̌͛̐̾̂͋͐̽̇̃̋͗̈́͐͋͗̓̄̏́̑͗̐̋̈́̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝­­̡̡̢̡̨̥͈̮̘̼͇͕̳͔̪̩͕͓̠̪̫̭̫̮̒̈́̃̈͑̋̾̔̀̏́̂̿͂̊̕͜͜͜͝͝ ̵̡̘̹̜̙̙͇̣̰̝̲̲̥̞̮͐̈́̿̍̋͒̃̎̋̽͛͂̌͒̀͗̚͜͜͝͠ ̶̡̨͙̜̝̞͎̜̦̠̟͓͚͔̭̖͎̲̣̳̘̞̩̪͚̅̒̆̈́̈͋͊̓̏͌͗͛̄̈̃̀̈͑͌̇̈̾̆́̅̊̎́̒͆̒̕͜͠͝͠͝͠ͅ­­̢̨̢̧̡̡͎̩̰̩͎̙̮̥̻͎̻̭͔̖̝̦̲̬̘͚̰̯̝̝̱̞̖͔͉͙̬̞̻̹̝̥̯̣͚͓̳̺̯͜ͅ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊ⴭ̨͉̣̲̟ͦ𝛥̨̡͓͇̘̼̳̘̬͍͉̞̥̎͂͌̿̍҅̎̕”


           Something answers.
           Not a voice.               Not words.              But a cadence I      remember
  not by sound,             but by absence.

A hush beneath the screaming. A tremor through the bones of the sea. It is not calling out. It is waiting—

—because it knew I’d come. Because he remembers, too. Even buried. Even broken.
He remembers
me.


“⫯̵̥̝̰̥̬̎̾🝛͔̳̯̳͚̗̫̜̤̽̓̕𝓒̳̾̒⾇̡̙̰̫̆͢ⰱ͉̬̤̙̠̲⾊̺̟͇̣̓͞ͅ­̘̘̲̞ͣͅ”
“­🜎̻̝̗͖̼̎͘͠⨀̨̝͙̗̲̮͙̰̖̅͛̐̾ͅ🜓̛̛͍̜̪̖͙̾̿͘͞ ̶̡̜̞̤͍̪̖͈̭̝̝̓ͅ ̶̧̩͓͉͕̈́͠ ̴̨̖̥̳͙̤̮̟͔͙̘̼̱̺̰̀ ̴̯͓̞̤̺̘̫̤̼̹̀͊͆̎̐̄̇͂̊́̎̿̏͠ ̵̧̱͓̖͖̝̮̜̯͙̭͓̗̓̇̓͐͒̔̿͘͜͠͝͝ ̶̡̨̣̲̱̈́͂͜ ̴̡̧̱͍̬̹̦͉̑̍́͊̈̂͑̋̇̈̕ ̵̨̨̻͉͕̰͇̩̭̻̹̘͇͎̲̔͑̈́̿̏̿́̀͑͂͒̄̍͘ͅ ̴̢͇͚̭̱̼̗̱͈̣͕̤̞͎͚̳͆̈́͊͂͗ͅⴰ͍̹͕͝𝜲̛͈̞͉̖͉ͣ̒”
“⟊̶̠̝̳͋­̤̳͓̙̼̣͗⣮̢̛͕͇͎͖͉͘͡⣾­̷̣̠̯̖̒͌⾓𝓢̡̛͍̫̬͕̤̦̠̜͇͓̼̦̓͛͐̚͢”
“̛̪̻̫̥̫̓ ̸̛͈̟͉̘̤̱̝͓̥̜͎͇͉͂̓͌̀̊̿͌̏̑̔̿̈̾̐̆͊̄̍́̕͘͜͠͝ ̷̡͓̗̻̠̫͕̬̭̝̫̣̥̰͈͍̱̬͗͒͋̑̈̽̆̈́͒̊̽̇̎̃͊́̈́́̐̈́̈́̅̈̊̔͋͊̍͛̀̒̕̚͝͝͝ ̵̦͖̼̦͎̜̪͙̐́̇͛̽̅̈́̀̏̓̆̐̂̌͗̈͐̊̑̋͂̇͘̕̚̚͝͝͝ ̵̛̹̫̟̝̲͕͗̑̆͌̈́̑̃͌́͆̈͆̒͛͑̐̓͊́̏̒̎̅͘͘̕͘̕͠͝͝ ̷̡̧̡̫̠̻͍͍̱̦̪̗̗͓̟̹̲͚̣̙̥̲͍͊͆̊̉̆͐̔̅͊̿̌̓̓̊̍̑̕͘̚͜ ̷̧̢̦͍̩̳̜̱̖̼͓̱̟͚͍̭͈͔̜̟̮̰̩̣͈̰̭̠̈́̄̿̃̈́̾̈́̌̐̚̚͜͝ ̸̢̛̩̠͓̜̣̱̼̩͕̭̹͓͕̻̘͚̖̲̥͂̋̂͊̓́͆̒̕͠͠ ̶̡̧̡̢̠͚̭̝͔̗͓̱̞̗̮̗̳̥͎̰̞̩̲̺̤̳̯̟̪̖̜̖̦͉̤͚͂͜ͅ ̵̘̲̝̝̝̺̖͎̭͕̭̞̙̙̳͗̉̿̌͂̾̾͆̎̀̀̅͑̋̆́̈͐̂̑͛̕ͅ ̸̢̛̛̛͓̟͙̱̖̝͕͖̬̟̦͈̞͍͓͓̼͈̹̹̏̍̇̂̈́̋̅͌̾̑̆̓͆͗̋́͊͛̉͛̂̚̚ ̸̨̝̯͖͕̭̯̜̱̞̼͖͎̫̗͈̺̤̞̤̥̪͚̫͈̜̰̤̽̑̓̌̊̍̆̈́͐́͒̏̐̊̍̏̈́̐̈̽̂͑̏̀̎͂̀̿̽̏͠͠͝͠͝ͅ­­̫̪̗̜̲͍̥̗̱ ̵̡̢̘̹̦̮̗͉̬̙̱̲̳͔̲̟̻̪̫͕͔͈̭̯̹͇̖̘̳̪̙̥̫̯͖̱͎̀̃͒͊̂͂̽̄̅̈̓͐͒͊́̈́́̀̃̕͠ͅ ̶̢̧̠̙̹̯͕̦͍̭͍͈̬̖̬͙̯̘̫̻̯̮͎̈́̽̀͌̽̉͑̈̚͠ ̸̢̢̯̺̖̗̲̬̲̟͈̲̫̮̰̫̰̜̻̹̫̤̰͐̂͆̓̑͊̅̇̒̍́̈́̒̈́̈́̑́̿̒̚͜ ̸̡̡̡̛͉̥̪̩̝͉͎̖̭̞̘͉̟͕̟͔̪̙̼͓͖̬̯̻̖̰̦͕͔̘̺̍̂̏͋̾̽̍̄̋̈͗̊͛͋͋̄̌̚͘͘͜͠͠'̴͛̆͑̚­­̌̍͐̾̋̀̇͊͌̈͌͗̍̋̒͆́͌̀̉̑̓̀͗͛͛͒̓͆̓͑̆̅͗̈͛̂̊̈́͒̉̎̑̈̒̀̐̿̉̌͂̀͂̐̓̃̊̓͂͂͘͘̕͝­͗­̡̧̧̨̧̝͍̹͖̺͖̙̖̯͚̦͔̘̟͔̞͖̯͍̩͔̭̔͜'̵́̈́̋͌̋̈́͋͌͗̎̎̏̊̈̈̅̀̈̂̇̓̐̄͒̈̿͋̒̆̄̓̊­̕͘­̛͂͂͌̄͗̓̃̀͌̋̑̇́̍̀͑̒̔̿̅͊̈̓̊̄̒̇͒͆̉̃̊̅̈́̓́̅̾͐̽̿̇͛̑͐̊̍̓̂͗̀̀͘̚̕͝͝͝͝͠͠­̛̍̑­̧̨̡̗̭͎̠̟͎̙̯̮̞̌̈́̽̆͆̆͑̈́̽͑̓̇́̀̓̂́̓͌̈̔̎̀̓̍̏̊̈́̅͆̈̎͒̓̉̽̎̏͑̕͘̚͘͝͝͝͠͠­̨̻͍̤­̢͚̰̝̝͚̤͚̩͔͈̭̠̖̳̼͔ͅ;̸̧̨̨̢̨̧̧̧̗̲͕̫̹͉͙̠͚̦̟̞͓̮̝͎̦̞̤̳̼̝̣̩͖̫̱̞͐͜͜ͅ­̢̥͎͎̲­̡̢̡̨̡̧̨̧̨̤̪͙͖̜͎̥̠͎͙̤̟͍̟̻̘͕̹͖̺̻͍̜͉̗̺͚̞̺͇̗̮̗̩̪͎̫̲̻͇̮̣͓̫̫̩͖̮͜ͅ­̜̰̫͔̱̠­̞̯̖̘̠̯̹̦̰̩̦̫̗͈͈͕̼̫̪̲͍̙̗͓̰̦͇̲̹͉̟̞̗͍̠̦͎͕;̸̛̈́͑̉̄̑̀̌́͊̐̏͂̐̑̽̏̑­̀̈́̃̌͊̔͌­̛̄̒̀̊̎͋́̀̔̔͆̽̂̌̐̄̿̾̔̈͗̈́̋́̀̋̑̄͑̓̓̌̾̓̇̐̂͋̊́̏̈́̈̿̏̓̎͊̽̕͘͠͠͝͠͠­͑͛̀̌̆̓͠͝­̡̯̝̪̼̭̦̙͙̯̘̜͍̹͉̱̻͓̣̼͓̳̩̉͛̈́͊̓̂̅̋̋̄̑̋͌̓̆̇͘̚͜͝)̴̆̾̓̈̍̊́̓̌̕̚­̀̋͌͗̇̽̿̚̚­̛̛̛̌͋̿̎̐͒̋͛̊̇͐̈͐̽̍̓̒̒̽̐̔̌̀́̿̒̆̔̒̈́͆͂̐̒͐͊̊͛̆̂͗̈́̓̂̈́̚͘͘͘̚͝͝­̛̌͌́̉̓̀́͘͝­̡̡̨̨̢̨͙͉̤̩̼̞̟̞̬͔̞͓̙̹̼͇͉̥̹̠̲̭̥̭͙̬̱͉̼̻͙̰̬̗̯̈́̀̒̉̓̉̇̚̕͜͜ͅͅ­͍̠͙̜̰̯̩͚͍̯͜­͙͎'̷̎͂̀͋̿̓̍͆̽́͒̏͆́͒͒̎̇͋͒̉͆̉̍̾̃̍̽̇̽͛͋́̐̃̀͊͑͒̕̕̚͘͘͠͝͝͠͝­͋͗̆͋̐͐̎̐̔̒͝͠­̛̛̾̅͐̓͐̀̈͒̅̑̓̍́̓͒̏̃́̔͋̽͗̌͂̿̀̾̀̔̆̓̓͂̋̍̏̍̽̾̆͋̔̈́̚̕̚͠͝͠͝­̛̆̌̍͑̅̍́̾́̚̚͠­̧̡̡̹͖̮͉̥̥̠̥̗̺͖̝͔͎͎̹̬͎̩͔̺͍̬̱͇̹͔͎͍͓̠͚͔̘̣̥̩̼̯̝̫̼̫̫̞͋̆ͅ­̡̧̭̰̮͙̫̣̜̩̻̩ͅͅ­̧̨̨̧̨̡̮̲͍̬̱͓̥̜̲̬͉̳̱͈̩̺̝̣̬̻͕͉͙̹̠͖̝̠͙͎̲͈̟̼͇͓͔̮̫͓͖͜͜ͅ­̧̞̺̲̭͜'̷̄̇̃̈́̈̊̕­̉̃͑̏̉͐̓̇͑̓̃́͌̐̏̒̀̽̎̿̏̄͆̀́́͒̌̓̃̑̇͑̀͛̇̽̂͌͋́̎͘͘͘̕͝͝͠­̛̓̄̀͐̋͑̈̔̃̾̒̒̚̕͝­͊̎̉̉̑̈̾͒̆̓̏͂̄̏̅̿́̀͐͋̎͑̾̉̃͛̈́͒́̓͑̆̾̋̅̎͂͘̕̚̚̕͝͝͝͠͠͝­̡̨͖̯͚̖͎̝͕̩̯̞̫͍̙͗ͅ­̡̡̨͈̟̤̘̙̳̗̖̰̹̯͔͓̗̹̪̝̳̜̭̟͕̰̳͉͙͉̳͍̙͔̲̯̲̗̹̖̱̞̯̖ͅͅͅ­̢̘͉̻͕̭̱̝̦͓̖͓̺̻̜̝͚ͅ­̧̧̢̢͉͖̩̜̻͎͙͔̙̩͙̜̳̜͖̤̖̺͍̝̙͚̻̪͎̞͍̩̙͕̣;̵̒̒̒̓̽̅̆̉̓­̈́̃́̒̊̿͂̊̈́͊̽̿͑̓̽̾̌́͠­̆̑̏͒̎̀͑̄̀̈́̄̍͒̈́̇̋͛̌͐̀̌̉̆̈̃̅̎̐̈́̎̓̊̏͑̽͆̃͘̚͘̕̕̕͝͝­̃͑̃̃́͂̂́̃̓͊́̏̈̽̂͑͑͠͠­̨̨̧̧̨̻̹̪̩̰͔̱̦̘͙͎͕͚̭̻͈͕̯̣͎̫͔̱̯͓̻̩͔͙̙͈̳̜̺̻͉̲̙͜­̨̠̭̯̬͖̳̟̤̞̦̥̜̗̯̦͎̞̬̞̞­̨̻̰͉̙̙̩̳̞͎̟̫͈͉͎̞͔̪͚̗͚͉̗͍̻͇͇͓̮̭̺̫̘̻͓̯̱̫͙̼ͅͅͅ­̧̡͓͇̰͕͖̭͖͓̳̹̣͎̯̹̗̠͚̪̻͜­̨̢̡̖͉͓͚̰̬͎̟̮̠͙̦͕̭̭̭̩̝̮̼̬̯̫͍͕ͅ;̵̋͛̇̃́̅̀͐̎͌͝­̨̘̳̟͖̱̘̜̂̿̈́̋̎͒̉̈́̄̉̓̌͘͜͝­̡̢̧̥͚̹̥̪̰̹̝̮̥̥̫͈̮̖͇̘̞͍͍̮͉̯̘̟͎̭̗̲̱͎̣͓͔͈ͅͅͅ­̢͇͔̖̥̩̮̜̩̦̫̘͕̤;̸̇͆̏̑̔̔͆͒­̛̛̛̎̆̔͌̾̾̇͌̓͑̇̆͌̎̀́̅̄̊͑̑̾̄̄͛̅̈́̎̓̚̕̚͝͝͝͠͝­̛́̎̎̋̍͐̓̾͗́̾͆̀͆͛́̏̈͗͂̚͝͝͝­̰̰̳͇̙̞͈̹̒̅̿̔͛̀̈͗̿͌͂̎̃͑̀̓̅̈̀̐̊̽͊̄͘͘̕͜͠͝͝­̨̢̨͍̯͍̯̬̺̺͈̮̫̫̫͈̥̜͙̙͉͍͜͜͜ͅ­̡̘̹.̷̛̾̉̓͂͊̔̓̿̇̊͒̋́̔̈́̀̎̑̅̎̎̇̿̅́͘͘͝͠͝͝͝­͒̃̅̈́̍̿̿̇̀̈́̒͂̎̀̂̍͛͆̂͛̋͘͘͠͝͝͝­͖͙͍̄͂͒͋̈́͆̏̕͝ͅͅ;̶̛́̍̀́̄̈́̉̎̓̽̂̑̇̅̽͑͗͘̕͝­̒̈̂͊̈́͒̉͛͒̋͗̆̾̃̓͑̀̈́̈́́̆̔̔́̔̚̕͝­̢̫̗̝.̸̈́̈́̋̄͋̆̌͌͋̊͌̍̆̒̑́̽͑̆̒̋͒͆̎̑̃̕͘͘̚­̛̛͊̇̎̄̀̿̇͊͂͌̿̈͑̓̅̅́̾̓̀̆̓̈́͠͝͠͝­̔̃̋̒̈̔̆̋̊̄̈́̇̎̄̾̓͋͆́͑̽͊̋̽̓͊̓̃̎̀͘̕̕͝͝­̀͑̑͋̋̀͂̈̆̂̍́͋͛̔͋̂̀̂̂̽̑̎̔͑͑̋́̚͝­͗̄͛͐͋́̽́͐̇̓̿̂̂̎́̉͌̅̓̍̂̏͆̈́̾̄͛͒̔̾͝͝͝­̡̨͇̣̠͖͍̰̙̰̗̘̺̰̭̘̻̲̱̥͈̎͊̎́͛̏͑͌͝ͅ­̢̧̨̤̫̞̲̲̹͓̙͓̩͓̩͈͍̘͔̫̳̱̻̟͕͕̣͓̥̝̲ͅͅ­̡̧̢̨͖̮͖̺̗̭̟͎̖̟͇̰̦̱̲̙̪̬̘̜̞̤̯͎͜͜ͅͅ­̟,̴̢̧̧̙͉̲̼̻̬͖̜̎̒̊͐̈́̋̏́͂̃͑̂̋̍̒͌͠͝­̧̧̧̭̲̤̬̘̻̗̼̻̠̬͇̦̣͕̗̫̺͕̱͓͚͖̹̳̖̜͜ͅͅ­̡̡̧̧̡̟̳̲̠̖̯̳͈͓̺̲̘̭͕͚͎̼͉͍͙̯̜͚͖͜͜­̡̧̧͍̟̮͈̦̟͇̩̪͔̰̥̩͖̹̥̣̰̤̭͙͉͎̞̟͍̳̹͜͜ͅ­̨̢̡͙͉̩̦͍̭̞̘̣̣̲̻̺̹̳͚̞͈̤̫̳͍̤̤͜ͅͅ­,̸̛̈̈̆̓͂̑̾͗̋͂̊͛́̍̈́͛̅̇͒̈̅̾̍̈́̈́͌̐̓͘͝͝͝­̢̨̧̦̩̯͎͖̟̯͈̯̣̋̉͒̏͝.̶̛̇̍̈́̈́͒́̕͝­̒̋̈́͐͋̀̐̓͆̀͛̈̇̔̅̓͛̌̅͑̒̒̐̒́͛̇͗̋͂̇̍̚̕͠͝­̛̄̑̈́̈͑̔̽̎͐́̍̑̐́̔̍̊̑͐̈́̽̽͘͝͠͝­̞̹̙̖̦̼̜̱͕̝̺̹̅̔͒̆̓̑̀̄͌̄̌̌̋̈́̾̍́̆̎̒͐̃̚̕͜­̦̯̝̬̖̦͈̮̝̟͕̭̻͓͕̳̝̼̯͉̰̘͙̰̬͕͜­̨̨̢̡̢̤̭̣͓͎͇̫͖͉̺̫̼̤͚͎̩̯̺̩͇͎̺̤̳̜͎͍̳̭̻͍͇͜­̨̨̡̠͉͈̩̗̯̙̣̹̩̠̥̻̤͉͉͚͎͍͓͉͜͜­̧̥̪̱̥͍̲̥͇̠̠͓͕̯.̸̛̛͆̏̀͛͛̊̆̇̿͒͐͋̋̎́́͆̀͂̀͠­̡͖̜̰̞̳͉͈̲̜̫͉̼̮̫͎̈́̊̈́͌͒̈́̃̇͝­̧̢̧̨͉̳͕͕̝̳̩̘̼̥̹͙̗̻͎̯͖̦̹͕͖͕̫̞̩̖̘͚̰̰̼̫̣̞͜͜­̡̢͍̭̖͔̹̘̗̗͔͎̩̭̤̗̤̮̺̬̲͓͉̩­̢͍̳͕͖̱,̸̡͙̤̯̭͇̖̟̔̐͒̏̃͊̃̀͒̀̐̒̏̑́͑̔́̾̏̐͑̊̒̓­̥͉͎͇̜̥̘̤͉̩̺̗̩̥̖͓͙̞̖̣̰͜ͅ­̧̫̝͈̹̺͚̘̮̤ͅ.̸̛̎̿̍͐̍͆̉͗̔̆̈́͆̈́̈́̈́͊̂̊̿̽̍̅͗̿͘͝͠͝­̃̀̑̎͗͂̈́͋̿̋̄͐̔̃̒̈́́̑̚͝͠͠­̛̍́͂̋̄̍́͂̏̉̎͊̈́̑̑͐͗̎̒̓̓͋̑͑͋͛͆̓̆̌͛̌̾̿̆̆͂͂̎͘̚͘­̊͗̂̽̇̾͒̈́̀͊̆̾͑͂̉̐̈́̐̈́͝͝­̡̘̲̟͇̹͈̮͉̱͉̘͍͈͕̍͘.̸̢̢̲͇͎͉̤̰̹̪͕̲͉͙̫̰̃̂͂͐́̿͐̓͜­̳̘̙̲͉̣͈̯̳̥͚͚͕͙̱̪̬̪̩̜­̨͉͚͈̣,̴̋̋̿̂̾̔́̌̾̍́̔̍̆́̿̍̑̾̇̈́̔͛̇͆͊̈́̈́͗̋̇̄̈́͘̚̚̚͝­́̑̈́̓̎̂̉̔́̅̏̓̆̍͒̏̿̋͠­̈́͐͌̆́̀̋̔̍͛͊̈́̓̌̂̾͛̒̈̈́̍̅̂̍̅̒̽̂̅̍̿̂̾̆̏̂̒͒̃̾͑̀̎̓̀͝­̟̞̰̘͎̌̄͂̄̔̎́͒̚͘̕͝ͅ­̢̨̡̧̡̨̦̩̣͓̼̠̥̞̳̞̝͍̰̱̹̟̻̬̙̰͖̳̫̹͎̞̮͈̼̱͕͍̪͚̠̬̬̜͙̰̦­̢̢̢̡̨̞̼͉̟͔̱̭͍̫͚̬̬­̣̪̠̠ ̸̡̧̡̟̫̬̲͖̙̯̭͓͚͎͕̳̬̼̭͉̪̹͇͔̭̖̣̬̦̜͕̰͍̰̳͎̗̦͙̣̼͙̻̙̬̤̤̫̩̝͙̹̟̗̳͕̰̅̾̕ͅͅͅͅ­­̡̢͎̩̩̝̜̝̻͕̰̰̙̗͜͜ͅ ̴̛͋͑̈͒̒̋́̓̋͋̒̈̍͗̂̀͌͆̈́́̿̌̿̒́̊̅͐̍̑͊̒̀̊̒͛́̾̿̓̂̐͗̇͒̓͋̃́͂̆̕̕͘͘̕͘͘͘̚͝͠͝­­̛̛̌̌̑̎̾̀̀͗̌̍̎̄̈́͂̔͗̽̈̾̅͊͑̏̄̊͋̽̓́̔̀̎̑̈́̀̽̍́̽̂̑͋̐͒͑͂̉̆̍͆̊̍̒̆̾̀͊̀͘̕̚͘­̓­̢̨̢̧̳̺̖̣̩̺̫̗̹̜̭̤̦̰̘̮͎͚̬̣̫̲̙͖̪͔̖̘̠̖̭͚̺̟̗̬̭̼̘͉̱̏͌͊͐̿͗̐͂̈́͛̆̄̍̉̕͜ͅͅ­͔̻­̧̧̢̜̫͉̜͙̦͕̜̜͕̤̪̰̞͖̟̹̤̭͉̙͉ ̴̛̛̛̌͐̀̽͛̿̀͐͗̉̈́̆̂͛̓̑̐̓͂͛̈̈́̽͌͒̀̈́͆̔̈̅͌̓͌̋͛̏̾́̏͐͋̈́͒͗̅̊̾̍̏̚͘̕͘̕̚̕͠͝͠͝­­̢̛̊̀̀̈̋̀̈́̋̿̂͂͒̄̒̋́̇́̍͒͒̋͊̀̐́̈̏̀̈́͐͑̊̊̃̑͊̅̓̀͋̊͌͆̃̉͊́͋̐̕̕̚̕͘̕͘͠͝͠͠͝­͙­̢̱̜͎̜̫̜̝̦̭̬̺̗͎̲͚̯͚͎͎͉͉̙̙͉͈̞̮̮̮͈̹̭̳̣͉͚̠͖̼̘̥̦̣̮̜̭̰̙̻̞̝̩̬̙͚̻͕͜͜͜ͅͅ­̣̠­̧̧̢̡̧͕̜̯̙̤̟͈͚̙̙̝̖͙̩̦̞͍̪͚̻͍̞̙͈̻͙̙͍̝͈̻͎̺̜̘̳̻̟̗͉͕̙̼͙̮̬͉͚̥̯͚͎͈͜͜ͅͅ­̼̩͉­̡̢̡̢͍̞̣͇͔̞͙̲͈͕̗̻̙̭͔̺̥̬̜͎̻̞̯͎̜͎̠͎̺̻͜͜ ̶̢̡̢̨̨̨̢̨̲̱̲͚̳̦̮̣͉͙̻̘̻̝̞̳̩͉̤̳̭̯͓̻̝̩̘̖̠̰̻̬͓̻͈̠̙̤̤͓̣̯̫͕̲̼̮̖̰̼͙̬̉̏͜͜­­̧̖̻̯͍̩̗͕̱͇̤̯̳̘͈̻͙̗͜ ̴̛͉̻͑͂͋̇̿̐̾̆̾̊̅͐̿͌͛͛͆̈́̈́̈́̍̅̎̾̂̒̿͛̾́̇͛̅͗̂͛͗͗̈́̾̀͊̉̎̊̓̀̐̎̕̚̚̚̚͠͝͝͠͝͝͝­­̢̡̡̨̢͓̜̣͙̯̯̩̳̫̤̙̖͔͚̹̹͍̺͍̙̳̖̲͙̖͓̹̯̪̦̱̭̳͎̪̝̰̤̯̬̯͚͕̰̺̱̗͔̠͉̻͓̜̣̫̞̬͜ͅ­̡­͎͖̣̠͚͕͍̦͔̤̱͔̥̪̳͓͖̺͍̼̗͉̝ͅͅ ̵̨̛̛̮͉̬̜͕̥̜̠̣̺̠̯̬͌͊̂̽̀̉̅̓͆̂̇̈́͑͒́̈̌̑̌͐́̓͆̅̒̍̏̾̾͂͐͛̽̍̐́̈́̈́́̄̀̚͜͠͝͠͝ͅ­­̧̨͔̘̻͈͔̘̞̲͓̟̹͙̼̟̣̫̱̘̰͉̥͎͙̝̞͉̯͈͈̜̺̺̲̫̟͔͖̫͍̠͍͔̰̙̠̯͓̦̫͖̦̖͚ͅ ̸̨̢̡̨̛̻̙̭̝̹̠̣͎͉̥͍̼͍̋̊̄̄͑̈́̀̀̋̈́̓͋̊̐̿̌̀̋͊̈́̒̂͒͆̐̇̿̊̾̽̀̐͊̔̒͑͋̉̔̈̓͝͝͝͠ͅ­­̧̨̢̨̡̡̧̲̙̝͔̥̭̯͈̩̥̣̼̞̟͈̬̙̘̟̻̬͈͎̖͎̱̹̬̯̥͍͖͙̱͚̰̘̳͓̳̪̦̭̹̬̝̮̙̜̫͍͜͜͜͜͜ͅ­͕­̧̫̞͔͎͙̙̦͇̙̞̩͎̰̦͎͔̠͓̲͚̖̖̯̻̜̣̺̠̯̼̩̩̼͖̺̼͖̗͓͓̳͍͚͙̯̝̻̩͖̥̪̙̞͕͖̣̣͜ͅͅͅͅ­̫̮­̠ ̵̛̛̛̍̐͂̇͊͊͗̂͗̒̇̆̔̒̀̉̂͆̂̽̓̒̑̎̓̔́̔͑̆̅͑̐̉̐́̏̇̓̒̐̐͆͛͌̅̎́͗͛̊̍͛̓̑̐̕͝͝͠͝­­̢̼̤͖̯͎̺̙͙͉͓̐̈́̂͑͗̅̆̿̋̅̓͗̂̅̀́́̿̒̀̽͊̈̋͆̂́̎͑́͑͊̂̔͒̀̎̿̀͛̌̐̽͂̄͗̉̚͘͜͠͠͠­ͅ­̢̧̢̭̹̫̝̹͉̣͎͚̙̝͚̬̱͈̪̹̘̙̝̫̜͖̗̻̙͙̦̥͕̘͖̥͚̪͇͙̼̟͉͔̜̙͖̭̦̤̪͔̭̱̯̦̬̙͇̠͔̩͜­̪̞­̢̢̢̡̡̠̣̠̘͚̠̞͓͚̹͉̬̟̥͇͕͉͙̤̹̗̜̙̹͈̟̟̬̣͇̼̠̥͚̤̬̲̭̰̞̳̩̤͇̺̪͔ ̸̛̾́̆̒̈́̊̊̉͌͗̽̾̐̓̈́͌͊̓̃̎̒͛̐͗̅̔̓̒̒͋̀̿̆̆̽͆̈́̈́̾͑̎̿̓̆̐͒̀̑̇̓̆̂̀͂͘̕̕͝͝͝͝͝͝­­̧̪̼̖͕̣̘̤͚̯̤̗̻̹͎̣̲̲̝͒͑͛̀̊̏̆͘ͅͅ ̶̛̟̩̝̌̍̃͆͑͊̆͒̏̋́̽̎̍͗̈́̍͂̀̋̈̓̈̇͒̑́͐̋͂́̎̄̃̀̋̆̌̈́͒́͊͋͛͆̑̆̋̾̉̈́̋͊̂̚͘͝͝͠­­̨̨̡̢̧̧̡̡̢͍̱̩̣̪̜͈͓͕͕̱̮̫̜̼͚͔̘̲̻̣͓͎͔̖̱̪͎͔̖̠͇̹͙͚̩͈̱̼̖͍̥̙͓͎̘̥͈͍͎̻̥̜͜ͅ­͙­̧̡̺̖̪̲̤̜̝̮̟͚̟̮̤̪͕̬͇͚ͅ ̴̢̭͎̫̼̺͎͚̟̙͚̜̠͖̿̂̃͂͑̓̓͌̐̈́͊̊̄̅͑̈́̉͐̊̊̎̋̒̒̓̔͆͐́̑͌̆̒̈́͐̓̉͐́̋͌͋͌͒̄̍͌̕͘͝­­̢̨̨̯̥͓̼̗͎̝̱͇͇͓̥͓̟̤̦̙͔̼̘̘͈̝̣̲̠͉̦͕̤͚̘̖̹͉̼̫͈̦̭̲͓̞̮̭͔͖̠̲͖̞̞̪̣̮̩͜͜͜ͅͅ­͇­̨̢̡̨̡̨̺̱̪͎̩̳̳̭̥͔͖̩̙̞͎͖̱̭͔̼͇̯̠͖̪͇̣̯̖̥̻̙̟͖͈͈͖̪͙͓̻̳̦͔̺͍̗̯͇ͅ ̵̢̛̪̯̟̜̖̫͕̺̲͆́̄̃͑̎̈̋̾͛̆̿̐̈̾̌͂͛̒̓̐̑̉̿̆̅̽̅̓̀͗͛̒̀̑͗̾̈́͒̄̾̂͒͗̈́͛̽͘͘͘͝͝͝­­̨̢̢̧̧̧̮͈͔̤̩̜̠̘̖͉̝̘͈̪̦̝̳͚̖̻̭̻̭̘̮͈͎̰͙̫̠͓͕̥̫̫̟̩̜̬̲̙̮̙̺̦̼̼͕̦̯̙̖͔̪̫͜͜­̻­̧̡̧͇̝͔̰̯͉̹̪̝̲̟̫̠̩̞̥̝͖̟̦̻̹̰͕̼͖̩͇͓͓͙͚̲̠̗͇̖̯͙̼̫̳̫̭̙̻̝̬͈͖̯̫̺̲̺͓̦̦̰͜­̨̭­̧̡̧̧̺̜͎͎̳̫̬̼̰͉̰̱͙̖̰̠͖͎̗͎͓̬̣͈̞͚̭̻͜͜ͅ ̸̡̢̨̨̡̥͈̠͈͙̲̩̣̳̪̜̠̯̮͚͓̣̱̮͚̪̭̫̯͙̖̪̮̩̯̠̝͕̟̰͎͚̘̝̠͔͆̍̈̈́͒͒̌͐̓̓͋͒͜͝͝͝͝͠­­̡̙̫̱̦̞̝̠͜ͅ ̵̢̻̪̙̥̤̮̦͖̣͙̮͊̇̂̂̑͛̏̌̒̀̑́̆̔͑̎̀̀͐̔͗͐͛̅́̀͂͐̔̈̀̔͑̃̒̂̈́̑͂̈̕̕̚̚̚͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅ­­̧̨̧̢̡̡̧̨̡̧̢̨̬͕̦͎̣̞̲̜̜̬͎̫̰͔̫̞̙͈̣̟̟̱̙̘̲̬̜̠͖̦̳͚͇̻̺̜͓̦̳̝̪͎̬̘̺̤͇̠̩͜ͅͅ­͓­̧̧̢̨̡̢͎̼̗̳͉̳̻̯̲̳̰͔̠̪͎̳͓̬̦͓̼̘͍̝̜̖͓̫͔̮̳͇̱͚̪̯͎̲̟̫̪͔͚̱̖͍̩̲̥̰̗̙̼͜͜͜ͅ­̮͚­̧͖͈̪͇̜͉̗̗̠͓̺͈̞̜̬̦̯̘̮̦͜ ̶̛̛̼͛̆̏̾̾̄̅̄͊̆̂̍̂̈́̒̾̑̉͗̽̊̾̑̂͑̅̿͊̒̈́̄̀͂̑͊̈̾̔̽̐̉͗̈̊͛́̈́̋͌̂͊̀̈͋̎̀̚͘̚͝͠­­̢̧̢̢̟̻̼̲͍̘̫̰͎̣̜̣̗̙̞̬̝̮͖̯̹͔̫͙̳͇̤̝̥͕͕͔̦̞̜͍̮̭̗͍͕͙͔̣͈̜̜̠͈͔̼̪̯̖̭̫͜͜ͅͅ­̣­̖̟̭̩̰ ̸̛̛̎̀̾̽̈́͆͗̄̏̀̂̾̄̉̆̊̆͋͒̀̏̆͑̈́́̅̍̓̐̇̈́̋̾̒̓̈̽̍̈́̄̿̈̂̂̿̔̌̓́̊̓͒͊͗̚͘̕͝͝͝͝͝­­̛̀́̐͐̒̆̑̀͑̽̅͋̽̄̓̀̃̾̽͒͛̃̅̈̀̂̉̐̉͋̃̐̋̇̋͊͐̿́̔̓̒̓̑͋̉̀̌͛͆͆͒̐͆͘̚̕̚̕͠͝͝͝­̳­̧̧̢̨̡̡̨̠̙͍̠͉͕͍̺͔̭̲̖̻̻̮̱͎̲͎̤̺͉̪͍̣͇̠̯̮̻̭̗̥̗̦͚̲̙̱̯̟̤̭̱͓̱̯̭͖̺͚̗͜ͅͅͅ­͎̯­̧̡̧̧̧͍͈̤̝̘͇͈̫̺̘̳͖̫̼͉̺̭̝̙͍̥̰̻̻͓̖͉͖͇͚̮̪̳̞͈͔̻̦̹̪̩̣͖͕̯̗͚͎̹̱̭̬͉̱̯͇ͅ­͙̩̯­ ̸̛͗̃͂̉́̍̒̅̅̏̽͒̽̈̈́̊̑̀̽̽͗͋̽̄̈́̌̍̔͒̔̓̉̋̃̃͑͋̔̽͊͂̒̄͑͆̓̓͊̑̽̓̉̄̉̉̍̕̚͝͝͝͠͝­­̧̛̛̟͍̱̪̣̘͍͕̻͔͇͇͕̙͇̪̙̖͎͖͉̞̻͙̈́̊̅̾̽̓̽̾͛̾̓̇͊͂̾̾͊̈́͑̌͐̾̋̔̾̌̿̈́͐́͛̕̕͘͜ͅͅ­̻­̢̧̨̱̤͇̗̮̱̲͔͎̤̙͇̣͖̰̲̠̹̩̙̠̹̤̮̣͖̰̜͎̪̬̻͇̫̙ͅ ̷̧̢̢̨̢̤̲͉̗̭̬̪͚̻̬̠͉͉̳͚͙̳̙̪̪̣̼̮̹͇͈̟̲̗̦̫̖̲̳͉͔̘͉̩͙̫͔͚̭̐̆̋̄͒̊̋̒̓͂̿͠͠͝ͅ­­̢̨̢̡͚̥͕͉̬͕͙̳̭̙̲̗͇̥͎͕̭̘̼̫̰̙̮̤͖͈̠̰͙̲̳͚̙̲̮͚̖̮͖̩̘͍̟͜͜ͅ ̷̧̧̘̞̬̬̣̻͎͈̔̾̒̄̓̃͂̔̊̂̿́̆̕͘ ̸̛̐́̿̉͑́̽͗̓̉̎͗̍̉̀͐̽͊́̉͗̊̏̽̃̉̑̿̾͐͒̍̇̓̆̓̈́́̈̔̿͒̆̈́̀̐̊̀̎̄͛͗̈̂̌̓͛̄̕̕͝͝͠­­̈́̉̒̂̆̅̍̿̈́̓̂͌̊̃̒͐̍̊̈́̇̀̀̍͑͗̉̊͛̄͑́͒̏̓̾̾͋̈́̌̀̐̃̀̌͊̿͑̾̑̚̕͘̕͘̚͘͘͝͝͝͝͝͠͠­͋­̡̩̝͇͖̺̯̹̹̭͎̙̜̺̠̖̜̙͈̫̖̩͎͔̺͙̯̭̙̮̬̆̉͊͋͜͝ͅͅ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊⾐̷̠̰̠̹́̚͢ ̸͖͓̲͚̰̱̟͕̈́̆̅̅́̏̌̀͌̍̀̾̕ ̷̧̢̙̻͎̥͈̘̻͎̜͔͔͎̭̞̔͗͌̅̂̽̃̇̂͠͝ ̵̰͐̃͗͑̈́͂̽̂̈́͠͝͝͠ ̴̨̨̛͎̘̻͈͎̱̬́̆̽͛͒̒̏̽̋̐̑͝͝ ̵̥̘̹̹̐̾̒̓ͅ ̶̘̬̗̓͌́̽̈̃̀̐̆̓̆͆̕̕͠”


My body            

              
           collapses to its  

      knees—




             not in surrender—    
just in                            



              fatigue.


  But I feel his hand.

Buried beneath             crushed coral       and brittle fragments      of digested        memories.

I                          
reach.


“­𝒀̸̮͇̟̞͎̘̥̦̙̟̪̓𝕆͘𝕌Ǵ̴̢̢̛̖̯̤̱͕̲̯̟𝒜̶̥͓͇͎̳̻̞̜͓͑𝓥𝔼ʜ̵𝐢𝕄𝔼𝕍𝓔𝖱𝙔𝐓̶ℍ𝕀𝓝𝙶!—𝐀𝓑̡­𝓞𝓓𝒀̴𝓣̴𝓗𝖆𝙏𝓒𝔸𝓃𝓢𝕋𝖆𝓨!—𝓛OO̷̹̘̗̗̰𝕂𝒜𝕋ᴹ𝔼𝒍𝕆𝕆𝓚Ａ𝙏𝙈𝑬!—𝕐͘𝗈𝐔’ᴿ𝕰Ｈ𝔼𝕽𝔼!—𝙁𝓘𝓝𝔄𝓛𝓛𝕐ʜᴇ𝕣­𝐞!—𝕔𝕆𝕄𝕖̵͔̲̳͇͎͉̗͉̜̎𝓑𝐀𝐂ᴋ—𝑊𝔼𝓬𝔸𝓃𝓑𝕖𝕎ʜ𝔬𝓛𝐄!”


She                doesn’­t understand. She              never                   will.
That I am whole                  because I remember who I chose                            instead of her.

She thrashes.
                       The ocean buckles.                
                                        ­­    I am almost crushed              
     beneath her weight.
My ribs strain.
                                      My lungs ache.
                                                           ­  My vision fractures.
                 She shrieks.


“𝒀̶̳͕̪̙̻̟̙͓̽𝓞̶̱̲̱̠̘̳̳̥̥̎𝕌̷̘̠̠̘̥̥̬̦͛G̶̘̟̞̯̟̮̫̩̥̋͜𝒜̶̠͙̟̮­̫̥̳͇̬͑𝓥̵̛̟̟̳̬͖͖͋𝔼̷̢̛̲̱̥̬̱̝̱̦𝕋̴̳͚̠͎̰̳̯̹̳̕𝕙̵̼̫̙̻̬͂𝕖̷̛͖̙̪̖̰̝̰̰̕𝙈̷̢̜̥­̙̙̤̪̽𝕎𝓘𝕟𝓖𝒮!𝓨̸͔̖̘̥͉̞͒𝖮̴̛̞̥̻̱̤̒𝕌̵̢̢̖̙̤͈̙̞̎𝓁̸͖̥̯̥̲̜̯̿𝓔̵̤̮̬͖͉͎͍͍̐𝓣̶̨͍­̫͓̱̞̩̩̏𝓣̴͔̠̳̫̰̝̪͉̱͘𝕙͘𝒆̷̡̛̼̮̤͕̤̠͈̼̓𝕞̶̢̛̲̜̲̰̮̘̜̹̾𝔽𝓛𝕐fᖇ𝐎𝐌𝕐ᴼ𝕌𝓡𝕒𝙍𝓜𝓢—̶̳­͖̯̺̬̳̦͖̮̋𝓐𝙉𝔻̸͍̝̯̬̼̖̲̦̼̽𝓨̷̪̮̞͎̳̲̜̲̓𝓞̶̼̯͚̠̘̠̫̐𝓤̴̛̘͓͚̤̱̟̓𝔾̴̟͓̪͙̟̰͕̔𝔸­̸̢̳̤͕̳̳̦͒𝔙̷̛̪̩̘̩̗̰͌𝓔̴̲̪̗̮̪̺͇͖̠̚𝕄̶͈̰̼̳̝̞̠͎͗𝔼̶̢̡͈̫̪̩̱̞̈𝓝𝓞̶̡̢̨̹̫̬͙͖̎­𝕋𝕙𝒊̶̼̥̘̖͙̥͝𝒩𝔾!”


Her                      voice                  
   ­   breaks.
                           Almost breaks…

                                me.


“𝓘̴͚͚͇͉̜̖̅̐̒𝓗̷̛̳͍̖­̻̟̓𝓐̶̲̞̯̗̦͇̅𝕍𝒆𝙉𝕆𝓢𝓚𝕀𝒩!—𝓝𝒪𝓗𝓐𝓝𝕕𝕊ᴛᴏʰ𝓞𝕝𝔻ʸ𝕆𝕌W𝙄𝕋𝓗!—𝓝𝕆𝓕𝓐𝓒𝔼—𝓝𝕆𝓛𝓘𝓟𝕊ᴛᴏ𝓚𝕀𝕊𝕊𝓨𝕆­𝕌!—𝓘H̵𝓐𝖁𝕖𝒪𝓝𝕃𝓨𝕎𝓐𝕍𝑬𝕊—𝒜𝓝𝓓𝓨𝕆𝕌—𝒴𝕆𝕌𝓗𝕆𝕃𝔻𝕙𝕀𝕄.—𝙃𝕀𝙈!”


She’s jealous                  of what she herself                   refused to accept. I can’t             transform an                            unwilling soul.
                              As much      as she     claims       to want the     result,                                            
she refuses to                  trust,
                                      ­        to share control,
to let me share with her,                                         the process.
It’s not that I withheld the opportunity,      
                                              ­she was simply unwilling.
Transformation is a divine experience.
                                         It can be neither         forced from nor       forced upon.              

                But she cares not                                 for reasons, cares not

for mutual agreement.                   She just wants

                                      to take,

but she cannot take    

                                                  from me.


                              I can’t let her                            distract me    
with                this
                                 ­                   slander.


I­ close my hands
around him.                    


“⩌̴̹̼̮̟̑̕͘ⴷ̹͛⎔͇̻̾͢𝛫̼̞͙̾̚⫯̴̛̦̪̗͈̇͒ ̸̢̨̢̢̡͖͓̩̜̘̣͓̫̗̺̺̲̬̗̠̤͎͙̜̩̙͓͚͇͔͕̱̜͉̭̬̳͍̩̪̝͔̓̍̿̈́̀́́͌̔̆̂͆̑̐̂̍̔̕̚͜͜ͅ­̧̟͎̦̤͙̼͚̫̙̯̤͖ ̶͙͕͕̮͒̂̊̾͌̒̚ ̴̨͓̘̗̣͎̭̣̣̼͇̱͕̠͑̈́̀̑̋̅̀̀̈́́̕͘͜ ̶͔̝̭̞͍̯̠͔̫̯̭͉͔̘̲̥̯̗̙͔̜̙͈̻̞̥̫̖̮͕̖̔̀̐͋͆͗͂͂͒̂̀̒̃̎͋̂̿͛̍͗̋̀̊̈͌͝͠͠͠͠͠ͅͅ­̢̮̦̩̝̠̝̯͕̞͈̰͎̫̰͈̘̹͎̯̭͜ͅ ̷̛̘͔͎̘̻̦̄̓͌͊̓̅͒̾̈́̔̈́͑́̾̈̎̀̈́̅͛̾̾̂̿̇̈͐̍̄̌̄̒̉̐̽̏̊͑̀̅̄́͒̽́͘̚͘̕͘͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅ­̢̧̢̡̢̢̧̳̲͎̞͚̥̺͎̰̘̩͉͔͔̟̞̜̼̻̠͍͖̻̳͔̩͈͚̟̳̻̜̻̗͇̦̼͔͚͔̯̭̜͚̺͜͜ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̢̢̢̛̼̤̦̫̹̰͙̼͉̠̩̤̦̲͖̹̙̩̗͙͉̜̟̱̝̤̦̝̘̭̹͈̋͋̾̍̅̀̂͑̅̊̍̂̉̒̈́̎̃̽̇̊̍̕͜͝ͅ­̨̨̢̤̙̻̦̟̝̼̫̦͍̬̹͚̭̬̲͇̙̲͉͍̮̤͇͉͈̦͜ ̸̋͛̑͂͗̑͋̌̓̓̂̈́͐̓̈́͑̂͛͌͋̒̈̓̅̈́͐̾̏̈́̀̈́̈́̅̓̓͒͐̉̃̔̔̈́͑͗̀̇̈́̀̍̕͘͘̚̕͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͠͠͠­̧̧̧̡̢̰̺̙̤͕͚̬̗̞̰̮̼̰̺̦̲̻̖͖̳͖̱̹͖̱̱͚͍̯̰̱͚̳̝̙̳̘̖̮͚̹̫̪̯̖̰͖͉̻̣̥̫̲̮̜͔̤͚͜ͅ­̨͎̰̯̺̯͙̺͔̳̹ ̴̢̯̳̟̟͓̝̞̺͓͖̗̦̜̹̖́͊̒̒͒̓̉̒̔̔̀̌͋̄̎̅̑̄̈́͗͗͂͌̾̆̿͆̋̀̄̀̽̌̃̉̔̍̀͋͊̽̾͗̾͘̕̚͝­̨̨̨̙̖̻̺̬͓̮͔̜͉̹͎̞̹̜̥̩̖̩̰̤̥͔̣̺̰̞̘̮͜͜ ̴̧̨̠̭̻̳͎̣̥̮̰̻̳͖̰͎͖̬͂̈́̀͂͌̀̅͐̃̋͗̃́̇̄͂͋̽̉̅̈́̐̀̿̆͋̐̇̇͑̈́͗̃̾̊̀̔̿̕͘̚̚͘͜͠͝­̨̧̜͕͕̯͓͙͓̟̤͕͍͈̹̺͚̖̳͍̲͓̦̹͖͙͖̰̳̠̗̖͙̭̻̺̘͇͖̖̘̖͓̳̺̗͜ ̶͚̪̖̍͒̓̽̿̈́̊̀̉͋̿́̓̈̈́̏̓̓̔̀̄̃̊̅͂̈́̂̊̀̄͆̋̓̍͑͌͒̊̇̉͑̈́̅̋͊̔̔̔͆͋͐̈́̍͂̕̕͜͠͠͝͝­̢̧̨̢̗̠̤̞̙̯̜̫̜̞̗̼͔͎̼͍̺̜̻̭̟̤̘̥̗̺̮̟͉̗͖͍̳̩̮͖̤̠̙̮̭̦̭̱͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̬̌́̎̂̒̑̅̿͗̆̽̋̄̾̒̿̈̊̊̋̓͌̀̅̇̏̍͆͛́̐̃̎͗̊͌̃̃̌̋̑̀͌̅̀͗̒̉͐̅́͗̂͋̈̂͛̏̆͝͠­̢̨̡̢̨̡̢̧̢̡̡̧̨̨͚͍͓͔͚̟͙̤͕̖̦͓̥̳͖̻̭͓͓̩̖̪̘͕̭̰̘̬͙͍̫͚̠̬̜̻̼̫̩͖̠̳̩͖̫̯͓̗͍̳͜­̧͚͙̻̩̥͕̗̗̺ ̸̢̨̛̮̺̺͖̗̣͚̺͛̊̑͑͋͊̂̓́͊̌͗̀́͋̂̇̆̑̒̑́̈̌̈͂̇̓̐̿̀̀̄̕͘͘͘̚͠ ̷̧̢̨̛̛͖̤͔̳̦̣̤͕̜̳̬̣̙̪̱̳̭̹͓̦͇̥͊͒́͋̋̂̾͑̋͋̔͋̈̇̃͒̓̔͌͑̉̈̃͐̋͐̆̅͘̚͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅ­̡͉͇͎̞͉̱̮͓͕͍͉͜ ̸̡̛͙͙̩̩͓̫̀̐̍̒̋́̈́̈́̃̀͌̌̋̑͐̔͊̔͂͆̓͌͊̈́͆͒̌͂̃̏̎̾̏̅͊͘͘͘͜͝͠͝ ̵̢̨̛̛̮̤̦͈̣͙͕̪̭͎͎̰͙̤̝̲͙̬̬͕͕͍̝̬̦́̀̃̈́̅̈̓̆́́̈́͆͋̋̆́͆̈́̅̐̈̆͒̽́͒̂̂́͊͜͝͠͝͝­̧̢̧̧̳̟͉̻̯̘̬̖͖͔͕̺̦̮̪ ̴͍̪̩͈͋̐̉̆̒͋͗̌͂̍̀̓̊̄̈̑̎̄̓́̎̓̂̑͐̈́͐̈́̉͋͊͝͝ ̵̛̣̤̓͑̎̈́̈́̉̃̋͊́́̒͌͒̃̏̃̒̄͐̔͌͋͛̕͝͠͠ ̴̡̛̱̟͉̬͇̼̺̖̀̒̓͂̀̾̆̂̄̇̇̓̍́̉̅͋̎͑̏̌̓̍͊̋̓̂̀̎̈́͒̑̂̀͊͛̈́̇́́̓͆̇͘͘͘͘͝͠͝͝͝͠͝­̧̖̩̪͇͓̟̞̣̘̥̱͖̱̝̟̝͓̤͙͔̼͉̲̥̫̪̠͉̳̩̺̱̯̫͜͜͜ͅ ̵̛͐̆̆̅͛̀͛̂̎̐̍̃̎̋͗̍́̑͂͌̓̔̽̀̾̀̑̽͛͂͗̈̾̈͑͛̔͊͛̀̈́̅̐̔̈́͂̓̀̈́̂͆͌̓̃͋̀̓̀͊̕͝͠͠­̨̨̧̢̡̡̢̰͇͈͙͉̗̠͍̮͖͕̟̘͚͙͔̱̞̜̰͉͉̗̫̦̼̖͖̙͔̗͍̟̲̘͎̪͍̺̦̝͚̹̥̹̈͗̽̎̾̿̏̍̽̕͜ͅͅ­̧͔̣͕̮͙̺̱ͅ ̶͕̭̪̥̗̼̑̑̍̍̈́́̅̐͊̔̓͑͊̅͑̃̀̐͗̔͆̆͊̍͂͛̔͘͠ ̷̧̞̻̯͉̭̖͕̳̖̼̭̭͈͓̹͉̯̩͉̤̀̀̾̿͌̽̌̈́͛͝͠ͅͅ ̶̡̡̡̢̢̞̱͓̭͓̖̠̳̹̬͍͖͇̟̤͙̤͓̳̞̳͍̘̙̯̦̪̗̮͙͖͎̮̞̜͈̝͕͉̱͚͇̪̘͓̖̹͈͛̎̄͛̅̃͜͝͝ͅͅ­̡̡̢̬͓͚͍̦͙̮̘̖̱̪̻̼̳ͅ ̷̧̛̯͉̺͓̤͕̗̘̗̣̝͎͉͉͉͑̇̊̑͛͂̓̇͗̃͗̌́̈́̎̒̋̽̊̒̐͒́̈́͂̀͘̕̕̕͠͝͠ ̸̧̢̢̛̲̣̦̫͈̝̰̭͍̹̗̻̝̲̾̒̀̆̐̾͌̊̂̇̋͂̉͊̈́̒̋̈́̾͛̆͐̋̇̍̆͐̔̆͊̀̀̈́̽̐̊̎̈̕͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅ­̡̧̨̢̢̠̹̙̻̯̯̼̤̰̼̰͇̱̲̮̮̜̻̮͈ ̵̨̢͍̩͚̥̯̫̹̥̻̝͖̪̻͚̖́͊͒̋̃̾̅͌̏̓̽̀̅͌͑̂̽͑́̂̊́̕̕̕͝͝͝͠ ̸̧͔̜̪̱̦͉͚̪̙̹̝̙̝͓̰̝͈͗͋̅̐̋̂̐̆̐́̓̿͐̄̄̽̒͒̍͆̄͐̓̋̉̌̇̿̈́͑̐̈́̄̽̆̽͊͆̎͘͝͝͝͝͠͠­̡̧̧̧̡̨̢̨̧̧̘̣̳͙̣̤̳̤̠̞͚̘̦̫̤͉̦͙̩̮̲̰̼̼̣͚̼̬̹͙̻͚̰̞͕̟͎͉̫̺̜̟͎̝͖͔̰͇̪͉͜ ̸̧̗̪͎̲̲͓̤̳̤̝̟̥̜̗̜͎̆͆́͂́̉̍͐̀̎̏̈́̊̊̆̃̈́̉̏͋̇̒̌̕͜͝ͅ ̶̨̧̧̢̪̩̟̤̰̦̺̰̳̟̼̟̟̹̰̳̝̞̫̮̜͕̝̝͖̻̙͈̜͉̘͔̲̲̯̝̜̗̘͇̗̭̮̞̺̬͖̱̯͉̯̑̔͂͆͊̀͜ͅͅ­̨̦̝̭͎̱̞̳̯̺͇̮͜ ̶̨̡̨̨̛̛̰͎͇̳̫̲͇̥̠̤̭̟̰̥͙͈̲͇̺͔͚̭̦͕͒̏͑̈̒̑̋͋́͛͂̽̔̂̊̇̊̏̄̽͛͑̽̉̓̚̚̕̚͘͠͝͝͝­̺͙̩̺̦̣̝̺͔̳̮̜͉̭̝̟͚̮͎͈͔̜͍ ̴̡̡̧̛̞̬̻̘̟̤̘̪͉̱̥̥̫͇͍̦͚̦͚̮̹̓̀̈́̓́͆̈́̇̉̿́̉͗̐͊̀̀̈́͂̑̈́̄̍̊͌̄̔̅̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̛̹̆̎̓̽́̋̍̅͗̑̐̔̐́̄͋͊̊͒͐̂͂̆̍͊̓̊̈͂̑̾̏͆̈́̀̋̓̆̎̂̂͑͗̿́̅̉̏̉͛̍̊͘͘͘̕̚̕̚͘͠͝­̡̨̧̡̢̠̰̘͙̲̖͚͓̪̗̙͔̗̬̳̗̬͓̫̮̻̰̣̭̘̖͓̳̲͖̜̖̯̜̯̖̥͈̝͇͓͈͓̟̟͔̯̰̯̭̲̝͖̥͖͕̼͜ ̶̛̛̛͑̈́̿̆̂͌͒͒͊̅̋̋̅̈̑̒͋̓̌̎̔̀̂͛̐̍̇͋̔̈́̎̌̈̈́̈͐͑̍̆̓͋͑̿͛͂̑̊͌̑͐̎̚͘̕͘̕̕̚̚͝͠­̛̛͇̖̉̽͑̅́͒̐̋̈́ ̴̡̨̛͈̗̤͍̙̲͔̫̹͙̜̩̠̯͖̟̫̺̹̞̻͔̪̦̗̠̭̹͍̺̲͕̦̙̼̈́̅͌̾͛̔̅̋̈́͗̌͒̾͋̊̈́̾̄̍͌̌̃̕͝͝͝­̖̹͜ ̸̢̨̨̦̬̮̫̰̜͈͙̞͚̪͓͓̣͓̻̠̪̝̥̮̘̲̥̬̺͉͉̯̘͕̹͍̾͐̓̏͌̈̓͂̚͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̛͔̼̺͖̘͚͉͂̑̋̎̓̅̏͒̈́͌̊̒̂͌̄̓̋́̈́́̍́͗̈́͌͗̑̈́̊̋̇̀͗̉̄̆̎͆͑̉̿̐̄̈́̈̆̑͘̕̕̕̚͘͝­̡̼̼͉̮̩̱̹̖͙̩̜͓̬̯̘̹̝̼̝̟͔̯̮̫̞̫͚̻̰̳͎̻̬̠̪͈ ̶̢̥͎̩͕̟̰̞͖͎̰̥̻͕͙̞̲̙̯͓̟̯̩̏͂͗͌̃͒̂̎̔̀̍͊̓̎̐̊͛͌̈́͐̾́̚̕͝͝͠ ̷̧̡̨̬̙̤̭̪͉͉̩̲̟̪̼̩̰̣̦͎̦͍͚̣͙̬̺̹̝̘̜̬́͜ͅͅ ̷̨̢̳̻̮͇̹̠̙͓̠̞̭̲͙̩̘̪̙͉̟̙̭̺̫̫̰̠͚̞͉̤̙͖͉̺̹̭̥̔̏̑̀̽̏͑̄̈́̆̄̅͑͂̋̀́̒̆͒̚̕͜͝͝­̡̨͍͈͚̹̪̞̬̜̥̤̯̫̞̯̯̥̗̯̜̗̥͍͖̞̻͓̝̜͔̖͚͍̻̗̼͜͜ ̶̛̛͕̱̻͕̱̠̂̆͗͗̆̈́̓̊͆̒̐͑̉͊͌͌̐̊̽͂̿̿͑͂̊̑͋̿̂̆̍͐͗̈́͒͒͒̾̌̎͌̑̔̾̋̽͐̒̀̈́͌̕͘͜͠͠­̨̡̨̢̣̘̩̭̟̣̠̥̬̟̳̬̲̝̲̼̻̯̻̞͔̗̺̹̮͇̝̣̜͔̹̠̙͓̬̩͕͚̪̰͎̱̝̝̠͈͕̺̭͓̹̭̫̲̣̹͔̠͜͜ͅ­͚̦̗͙̰͓ͅ ̴̡̪̮̘̟̱̪̗̱̖̩̹̗̘̯̖̘̮͒́̔̍̊̐́̊̍͑̑͊͑̂͑͊͂̆̌̎̈́̏̄̉̏́̂̍̇͛̍͗́͆͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅ ̶̧̧̢̡̢̛͓͚̤̳̹̣͕̙͔̣̟̝̮̟͛̇͂͒̈́̈́̇͐̾̇̈́̑͗̿̒̿̍̏͆͛̔̐̀̀́́̀͆͋̑́̃̀̇͗͘̚͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅ­̧̡̤̦̼̗̣̜͍̭̫̗̩̫̠̱͍̻̼̘̳͕̞̺͇̲͖̣̭̱̬̣̞̳̟̜͙̣͓͓̘̺͇̠̺̱̩̹̟̗͍̥ͅ ̵̛̛͚͕̝͎̯̱̪͚̼̜̠̍̓̂̔͆̈͗̏̉̉̅̈́̀̇̄̔̇̐͆̀́̐̊͗͒̓͂̏̆́̈́̑̀́́̈́̎̊̍͑̓͛͋͒̉̕͘͠͝͝͠­̭̭͇̦̮̟̳̣̳͙̟̮̮̹̩̪͜ ̸̢̢̡̨̢̡̡̬̠̗̟̮̩̗̗͇̮͚̹͈̜̪͙͍͈̘̮̥̻̜͕͓̦̞̥̯̯̠͎͚̮̭̦̩͛̅͂̒͛̾̿͋̎̏̍͗̈́̂͋̓̈̇͘ͅ­̨̱̦͓̗̬̪͕̬̹̤̰͈̙̜ ̵̡̨͕͇͕͎͕̲͔̯̹͍̩̲͍̥̜͓̰͍̼̥̙͔͇̺͉̜͍̫͙̝͖̯̙͆͛̒̀̈́̌́̎̇̍͐̄͝͠𐎿̃­̷̯̮̙͚̤̬̩͇̪” “⻗̵̴̢̬̞̳̆̽𝙃⩣̻̤̖͓̳̬̼ͧ͐𝕗̰̟̦͍͇̪̲͕͎̍̒̍̽̾͘͠Ɐ̛̤̘̐̕ͅ⛶̷̢̞̫͈̣̳̻̦̙͈̬̰̓⟁͕͓̳͂­­̦̍͊” “⛘̲̼͕͚̞͍̿̅̄̔🝛̸̬̟̯͍̪͝𝒎̨̘̬̬̲̫̯̘͊̎̍͜͡⥤̢̻̹͔̠̏̽𝙐̢͚̼̞̪̬̟̟͎͕̩̏̎͌̕͢͢⍊͖̪̾͂­­̪̣” “⟍̸̨̬̖̹͎̙̜̔͗͟͢͢⩘̛̠̤̘͕̩̜̾̎ͅ𝑾̴̛͔̰̩͕̬̘̣̫̤̠͕̳͒̍̾̒̓͡𝕔⻡̨̲̘͇̤̰̜͉̿̚͜͠͡⧷͇̓­­̮” “⨅̸̴̡̛̹̳̘̻̰͍̪̮̥͖̣̠̋͛͊̀͌͒̊͌̑͑̓̃̾̑̾̈́̃̊͗̿̏̀̌̈́̾̋̑̎̽̉̆̏̃̐͋̀̓́͆͘͢͟͜͢͝͠­­̧̨̡̡̧̪̲̭̯̱̭͉̙̼͉̳͇̖̯͚̤͈̘̞̯͎̠͇̱̲͚̦̜̦͍̱̞̖͙̈́̀͂̌͒̃̃̀̍̓̄͊͂̔͌͊͐͑́̚̕͜͝͝͠͠­­̨͕̤͚̠̮̟͍͚̟͓.̴̤̯̖̜͓͚̙̫̜̬̻͓̣̹̟̰̞͉̺̪̘̼͉̣͇͉̻̼̈̀̌̂̉͂̀̔̏̊̋͑͐̀̇͊͐͋͘͘͜͝͝­̧­̡̨͈̭̰͉͙̙͈̤͉͜.̸́̓̾̈́̒̇̋͛̏̇̒͛̆͗̈́̒͆̀̈́͛̂̏̊̌̿̋͊̏̆́͆̐̏̀̏̂͆͐͘̚͘̕͘̕̚͝͝͝͝­̒̕­̢̢̡̜̬̞͍̫̩͔̞̪͍̫̭͔͉̬̩͕̠͍̜̰̳͎͍͙̭͉̲̯̘̥̥̘͕̫̦̥̼̉́̃̅̓̍̀̆̍̒̚͜.̵̿̑̇̈́̉̓͆­̈́̿̓­̡̢̡͉͍͔̺̭͇̝͔̲̘̗̰͖̟̺̘̖̼̜͈̤̗̣̭̩̥̼̮̗̲̦̱͖͍̟̖̪̻̣̼̬̭̍ͅͅ.̶̛̑̈́͐͂̏͌͛͘̕͝­̻̰̥ͅ­̡̡̢̧͍̗̩̩͙̹̤̖̖͔̗̮̗̙̦͕̮͓͚̦̳̟͚̳̫͖̝̗̱̰͈͎̣̬̗̜̲͓͖̖̦̜͖̖ͅͅͅ.̷̇̈́͐͐̚͠͠­̈́̀͆̔͝­̨̢̢̧̜̩̮̻̗͈̩̖̳̩͔̟͚̬̱̬̙̖͊̂̈̽̾͑͒̇͌̌̑̃̈́͜͝͝.̴̖̍͆͌̈͋̈́̑̔͒̈̐̄̃̇̉̚͘͝­͔̳̜͎͈̗­̡̧̨̨̯̭̱̫̝͔̘͔̥̯̲̞̫͕̤͖̘̦͉̟͈̹̣͎͎͚̟͓̲̙̯̺̗͔̦̪̭͍͜͜͜ͅͅ-̸̄́͛̋͋̀̌̊͝­̛̀̽̔̄̕͝­̨̺͙͉̺̫̝͚̩̞͍̪̰̭̘̆̽̀͋̉̋́͗͑͌͊́͋̏̑̆͗́͐́̀̈́̍̅̆̓̂̔̈́̈́̇͌͛̈̚̕̚͘͘͘͠͝­̧̨̯͓̩̱̣.­̴̨̧̧̨̢͍͕̪̲̖̹͓͔̥̮͍͇̳̪͉͍̙̦̜͖̠͈̠̱̻̤̰͕̭̱̘̳̹̪́̉̔̽͐͑̿͒̍͊̍̋͆͒͘ͅ­̻̯͖̞͉̳̭̗͙­̧̟̣̮̘̟-̶̏̃̾̌̒͒̀͂̐͑͋̈̏̐̃̐́͒̉̈́͆̿̆̇̀̃̎̂̈́̿͋̎́͗̏̊͋̀̽͋͘̕̚͘͘͝͝­̢̫̰̳̙̟͉͉̯̙­̡̡͈̬̜̜͔͔͇̞̼̪̙͍̻̝̭̼͔,̷̧̢̛̩͉̫̦̩̗̮̬̤̟̺̙͔̙̠̌̈̒͌̎̌͂͑́̌̂͌̃͝ͅ­̻̯͍̪͙,̶͗̐̃͌­̨̧̢͔̼͈̲̼͖̘͎̥̫̞̬͚͈̰̣̗̙̩͇̯̦̇̔̈̔̋͐͂̓̾̃̽̽̊̓̎̅̽̈̄̿̌͛͑̋͘͝͝ͅ­̫͈̺͇̖̭̜̘̣̳,̷­̛̛̛̮̝̮̣͇̥̩͙̯̠̖͐̏̈́͂̒̀͌̾̑͒̃̂̈́̒͒͌̆̏̔͐̍́̏̆́͌̆̚̕͘̚̕̕̚͝͝͝͠­͇͔ ̴̡̢̧̡̨̮̳̼͓̙͕͕̖͖̯̼͓̻̺̟̭͈͖͓̺̦̬̳͉̰̬̼̫̘͙̮̜̪̺̱̈́̃̂͜ͅ ̵̨̨̧̨̛̻͈͖͍͖̞̦̟̜̙̻̲̱͕̼̪͇̰̰̗̪͇̻̪͔̲̠̜͉̝̤̪͉̞̗̝͙̬̰͙͓̬̭̰̗̣͈̅͌̽̽̏͋͋̎̕͜͜ͅ­­̧̮͓ ̶̨̧̛̟̝̠̦̩̘̞͖̫͎̞͙̦͇͚͔̣͎̝̝̯̮͚̪͈͉̞̖̞͔͈̳͔̞̺̺̝̳̍̿̎̒̐͐͗̄̏͆̐̾̿̒̏̾̓̄̈́̿̓͘͘­­̨̨̥̼̹̩̩̠̯̥̙͚̪̦̤̮͍̪̪̥͜ͅ ̶̢̧̢̛̛̪͍̹̼͖͖͔͇͈̗̯͓̬͙̟̟͔̟̔̆̌̓̈́̄̎͗̎̐̃̓́̄̊̆̆̽̅͐͑̽̈̔͊̓̋̇̀̐̑̀̇̈́͗̎̐̑̕̚͝­­̨̡̢̧̢̞̠̦̼̮̣͔̮͉̼͇̼̦͚̼͎̮̥͚̜̙͇̟͈̱̗͚͖̩̫͎͉̖̠͚ ̴̧̡̛̲̻̻̩͙͈̻̠̼̥̫̹̺̲͚̖̲̬͕̱̹͓̥̮̙̠̳̟̗͈̓̌̀̈́̒̎͗̌̏̃͐͑̈͌̉̓̇̏̽̑̓̏̃̒̌̂͘͘͜͜͝­­̡̧̢͇̫̯̥̪͔̲̟̪̻̪̜͎͖̜̟͕͜ ̵̧̢̛̳̺̼̭̺̟͙̜̱̱̥͍̭̳̩͙͈̮̻̩͙̥̮͉̏́̃̔͋̍̓͂́͒͋̓̍̿͐̑̓́͐͆̔̔̀̂̀̍̀͋̊́̿̚͘̕͘͝ͅ­­̨̥̰̮̝̩͇͍̯̻͈͉̞̞̫̟̬̮̘ ̷̢̧̧̡̤̮͖̺̟̰̗̱͉̞̩̜̗͖͔̖̺̘̗̻̭̦̳̯͙̱͓̹̼̲̹̦̖̟̬̹̙̭͉̹̜̱̮̦̠̞̩̽̀̉̉̾͜͜͠ͅ­̱̱ͅ­ ̷͓͙̯̞̲̥̐̒̂̆͊̓̈́̀̽̋̓̎͛͆̀̀̈́̕̕͠ ̸̟̦̬̬̈́̌͆̉̎̅̍̎̌̔̾̉̿̇͑̄̿̋̑͐̑̈́̐͑̇̅̒̏͌̚͝͝͠͝ ̶̨̲͚̙͔̓͌͐̈́͆̌̎͂̅́͗́̐̈̈́͂́̐͋̌̒͋̾̈́̈́͊͒̇̅́̓̅̓̀̌͒͂́͗̽͆̕̚͝ ̵̨̢̧̫̝͈͍̦̫̪̬̹̮̻̩̙̲̝̠̭̺̹́̒̌͗̑͌͒̐̃̃̑́̿̽̀̈́̇̋͛̈́̒̊̃̔̿̃̏̀̓̈̑̍͘̕̕̚̚͠͠͝͠͠­­̡̧̥̘̭̫̘̰̲̯͔̲̰͚̞̖͕̻̻̝̥͙̬̱̬̬̩̲̦ͅ ̷̢̡̟͇̝͎͓͎̜̣̮̘̗̙̞̱̼̙͍̝̳̺̣̼̫̳̩̮̱̗͚̮͙̺̼̜̤͇̀̏̊͛́̎̌̏̅̎̒̔͂̿̐͗̈́͗̅̂̅̽̿̚̕ͅ­­͈̠̜̩͙̫̻̹̮̘̞͎̜͍̬̺̙͕ ̵̡̧̛̯̻͇̦̤͒̀͆̈́̈́̈́̉͆̉̀́̒̀͆̅̂͑̐̓̈́͆̍̓͊̿͒̔̎̂̊̎͒͌̃͂͗̇̈́̆̓̀̀̄̔̅̍́̂̕̚̕͝͝͝ͅ­­̨̡̧̢̮̺͍̯̺̲̺͔͚̬̬̙͓̭͍̲͓̘̟̬̦̣͓̮͚̪͓͚̖̩̻̩̬͚͜ͅ ̴̧̧͕͍͇͉̠̮̖͇̳̳̩̞̦͍̦͔͇̮͕̥̮̳̻̥̗̱̫̼̹̖͉͙̞̞̹̼̌̄̅͜͜ ̵̧̢̡̡̛̰̱̟͈̠̲̟̦͋͋̍̌̏̃̂̓̋̑̾͑̓̀̍̔̊͐̎͂̆͊͆͝͠͝⛑̷̰̖̺͙̜̬͙̔̕”


          ­                           I grip
Death's  memories                   
  to my chest.

They

                    burn.

Each one flays a truth across my spine.

He trusted me.                                  
                           ­                                                He did not forget me.
                                          He forgot himself.
His memories,                         they are                  almost                too much       too beautiful          for me to bear.
They are not just                             his memories alone,                      
                                    ­­                               they are
entwined        with
my soul.


“⫫̼̖̲ͤ̍𝕂͎̯̘̥͇̻͖̠̳ͦ̎̕ͅ⩝̷̵̢̗̪͙͍̯̪̙̘̳͈͂̔̐͜͜͝” “⻠̢̯̖̘̺̍͞ͅ𝘳̢̛̹͎͉͕̹̮̘̝̲̣̩̜̟̾̍̋̕͢͡ ̸͕̜̅́̓̃̃͛̄̃̈́͒̓̀̅͛̅̅̉̔̀̓͂̾̈́̈̾̐̇̓͂͂͒̌͘͠ ̸̨̩̮͔̦͈̘̤͖̭̬̹̼͓̖͕͉̱̿͑̈́̀͂̐͌̚ ̵̻̝͉͖̖̰͆͐̈̂̓̐͋̕͝ ̷̢̨͓̞͓͕̣̼̠̲̬̠̜̱͚͍̰̬̩̼̪͙͙̟̦̪̠͇̻̹̜͔̖͇̜̭̠̝͎̞̬̪̉͒͋̎̈́̄ͅ ̴̧̭̖̩̫̟̮̺͓̪͍̰͔̔̏͂͑̾̀̉͆̓̑̄͛͜͠͠ͅ ̵̢̧̢̢̧̛͇̫̘͚͓̮̱̥̺͎͖̜̦̗̦̼͚͔̼̩̟̙̞̩͚͍̺̙̣̰̋͆̑͗͂̅̓̇͗̇͊̓̇̋͜͠ͅ ̷̨̛̛̼̤̠̼̺̬͎̪̤̞̻̤̈́̄̓̓͗̀̓̇̍̄̐̈̃̓̌͗͛́̑̔͒́͝͝͝͝͝͠ ̸̡̦̝͓̯̭̖͓̹̻͍̥͍̟͐͐̈́̂̾͆͊̿͒̔̾̅͂͆̓́̿̓́̔̊͛͌͛͑͛͌̂̈́̎͌͠ ̵̢̨̧̢̛̛͙̻̳̰̟͕͖̪̖̲͉̖̩̟̔̉̊̆̂͌͌̓͗̅͒͂̉͗ ̴̨̡̢͓̳̠̩̪̤̪̞̮̹̹̲͉̠̤̱͓̯̯̞̘̟̭̲̇̈̀͝ ̶̢̱̱͔͕͓̮͈̜̦͔͎͖̤̰̗̯̂̍͋̈́̑̈́̈̄͛̅̿̈̂̆̌̋͑͂̑́̌̍̊̈́̑͐̀́̋́͐̔͆͒̌͑̂͗̌͜͠ͅͅ ̷̡̡̨̨̡̡̛̲̩̼̰̳̺̬̻̼̩͔̱̣̣̬̥͓͚̼̝̩̮̬͈̥͕̜̖̼̮͉̦͐͌̿̄̄͋́̂̂̋̽̽̋͐̓͒̉̈́͆̊̕͘͝͝ͅ­­̨̠͓̼ ̶̝͍̲̥̞͕̯̫̭̫̇̑̈́̊̋̀̄͆̈́̋̈͜ ̶̘̹̘͔̞̤͈̟̭̮̺̖̼͖̥̿̾͊̇̈́̈́͋͌͛͋̂͆̃́͒͊̋̒̚͘͘͠ͅ ̴͖͚̭͔̣͈̖͖̤̪̤̳̲̱̳̙͇̞̜̙̞͎̩̭̘̪̠̰͇͖̗͔̲͇͐̋͐́̓͑̉̑́̍̈́̀͂̈́̅̈́̈̑̿̕͝ ̷̢̡̨̡̛̩̭̯̥͎͉̭̲̭͙͔͉̙̹̮̖̘̪̬̣͔̙̻̘̤̽̄͒͂̒̾̔̐̎́̇̓̍͛̽̂̀̀̈́̃̀̀̐̏̎͌̓̅͋̐͜͝͠ ̷̡̛̩̖̹͖͈̘͔̩͍̙̻͙̩̮̩̞͓͔͎̖̺̭̈́̎̅̉͐̆̓͋͐́̑͒̉͊̄̓̈́̀̄͋̑̉̋͗̎͆̕̚͜ͅ ̸̢̨̛̯̳͈̭͈̱̦̫̼͖͎̱͕͇̞̭͕̼͇͙̣̟̠͉̙͐̇̏̍̋͂͛̐̏͋̃͌́͊̿͒̚͘̕̚͜͠͝ͅ ̷̨̡̧͍̝̬̫͚͔͖͇̯̙̱̻͍͓̖͍̘͉͚̺͇̲͚͓͚̺͉̟̮̲͕͓͓͒͂̅̀̆͂̉̎͋͂͋̓̿̒͛͛͒̐̇̿̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̧̨̢̛̱͍̫̬͖̥̜̘̘̮̳͕͖͓̲̜̼̜̤̞̪̜̄́̿̂̍͊̒̀̂̏̂̐͒͗̒̒͑̄̓͒̈́͛̉̊̓̄̍̉͝͝͝ͅ ̴̢̣͎͈̥̱̟̂̏̽͋̍̈́͋͑̄͛͊͂͌̚͘̚͝ ̶̭̩͉̳̖̳̯̲̘̦͔̝̪͔̫̳̰͎̘̣͙͎̑̾͌ ̶̧̨̩̥͚̝͔̝̼̙̟̙̤͍͚̞̭̮̭̈́̈́̄͛͒͒̈̓͌̅̓̈́̂͌̋͐͌̓̓́̔̽̏̈́̔̋̈́͑̇̾̀̈̈́̔͊̂͗̓̌̃̐̕͜͠͠­­̪̺̻̬̺̩̥̠̞̗͉̝̟̤̜͚̻̞̼̫ ̶̧͍̘̠̬̮̘͖̰̖͔͙̼̯͎̹́̒̽̈́͌̑̒̒̀͑͗̉́̈̀̽̒̄͜ ̴̛̛̩̻̭̞̭̹͕̣̌́͂̅̈̃̌́̆̐̾̈́͗̈̇̒̑̅̏͒̋̍̄͑̍͆͒̓̀̎̄́̊͊̉̀̚͘͘͘ ̸̡̢̡̨̧̛̥̱̬̗̭̜̘̣̹̭͇̳͍͍̓͋̽̽͌̄̈́̐͊̒́́̇̌͝ͅ ̴̲̩̱͓̻͔̩̟̻͉̜̠̲̭̖̳̻͈͖͐̇͘͜͝ͅ ̶̧̡̛͓̗̭͇͓̮̫̪̘̹̯͎͍͚͙͇̼̙̦̟̺͎̲̲͔̫̯̪̠̻̒̽́̑̌̏̈́͊̓͒̈̋̽̑̎͒͊͑̅̎͐͛̓̒͋̑̇̕͝ͅͅ­­̨͔̲̣̦̣͉̱͜ ̸̨̨̦̬͓̰̦̟͈̦̑̽̇̔̄͒̈́̅̄̄̕̕ ̵̡̡̼͖͕̣͇̳͔̝͖̮̺̮̩̥̯͉̣̜͕͈͇̻͈̘̹͔͈͚͓̏͐̃̈͑̀̇̐̍͒̊̍̅̀̾̿̇̽̾́͛ ̴̧̝̼̠͔̬͍̺͇̮͇͚̞̪̺̭͕̱̻̱͎͆̓̀́̋̀̄͂̅͛͗̏̎̈́̄̈̓͂̿̈́̃̒̍̇̊̉̽̓̍̽̈̄̏̅̍̑̓͘̚̚͝͠͝­­̟̘̙̙̘̦̟̗͖̠ ̵̢͖̫̻̤̽̿̈̾̊̊̇̊̃̈́̊͐̇̈̓͘ ̸̨̡̡͚͖̦̙̘͔͈͉̜̙̻̫͚̻̼̼͚͓͇̬̰̤̽̿̉̏͒̇̈́͑͂̈͐̈̄̈́̃̇̌̓͊̔͛̕̚͜͜͠ͅ ̴̨̧̨̢̡̢̧̜͙̥̩̹̗̦͚͎͖̖̝̼͍͍̺͕̩͖̰̹͇̹͓͔͙̺͕̜̓̑̔͗̓̍͌͊͋͋̅̍̿̽̒͑͝͝ ̴̧̧̨̛̯̪̫͖͈͉͈͙͎͈̝̗̩̗͕͖̞͙͔̃̏̄̊̿̑̀̏̿͐͌̑͒̎̽́̓̒̀̀̾͌͊͘͝𝓩̛͔̼̘̬̗͍̠̲͎̤̐͆̽͞­­̸̼̮̦̪͔̐̓͡͝ͅ” “⍿̡̮̹̘̣̗͂͘̕̕𝑬̶̨̞̯̤̩̣̰̠͕̝͚͚̜̐̎͞͝ͅ⥸̛̬̜̲̐̚𝙸̻̺͚̦̙͓̻̒ͅ ̴̛̮̰̠̬̉͌̔́̓͗͋̄̉̈́͒́̍͛̋̉͂̽̒̃̆̌̏̀̂͒̌̃̎̈́̿̐̔̓̅͗̄̈́̃̀͂͋̄͛̔̃͑̏̐̕͘̚͝͝͝͠͝͝­­̧̨̢̧͓͍̞̯̹̲͙̤̜̘̜͎̣̟̝̙̤̘̘̦̮̭̥̺̟̘̤̲͇̖͙̞̤̣̣̜͚̦̩͇͇̼̰̣͜͜ͅͅͅ𝙜̸̜̖̘̩̟̥̐̕͟­⨃­” “.̶̧̨̢̢͕̩͇͇̗̫̼̦͓̝̮̾͛̈̋̌̉͑́̓̆̔̇̄̕̚̚͠.̶̛̿̈̿̅́͐͗̈̓͂͊̉͂̀̐̎̓̀͛̇̿̓́̚͘̕͝­­̢̢̡̧̗̱̻̗̭̙̞̣̤͕̮̦̺͈̞͍̹̼̟̹͕̥̤̦̻̮͙̣̗̜̭̪̜̽͌́̓̿̽͒͛̀̈́̑̑̿̌͒̀͜.̴͂͆̾̾͋̿̍͑­͂­̢̨̠̖̜̱̰͓̟͓̰̞̻̩̜̯̤̟͙̯͔͕̳̲͎̮̘̘̗̮̳̼͓̟͓̭͙͙̂͌̈́̂̅̈̃̐̌̄̂̆͊̈́̓͗̃͐̌͑̿͘͝ͅ.­̶́­̡̧̼̠̯͍͕͖̝̼̜̳̠̘͈͓̮̺̟̞̹̝̘̰̞̭͉͓̝̜̖̔̋̐̓̇̚ͅ,̶͙͇̞̖͓̗̥̼͛́̍̿͒̀͛́̊́̀̈́͒͠­̡͙͜­̢̨͚̪̮̙̜̘͓͓̺͔̞͎͎̘̦͚̥͎͉̝̯̬͜ͅ,̸̒͒̾̀͋̑̈́̈́̓͊̂͆̎͋̑͊̆́̎̓͊̏͌̍̄̽̅̌̄͑̾͘͠­̧͎̅̒­̢̦͕̜̥̜̪̜͕̯̩͇͍͎͉̜.̵̧̛̛͎̰̤̤̙̪̳̣̣̙̞͎͕̻̖͒̍̊͒̔̍̿͗͂͂͜͜-̷̅̈̓̈͌̽̿͆͛̊­̉́͑̀̈­̧͈͈̩̠̳̬̝̱͚͇̞̘͔̭̰͔̣̙̞̖̮͓̜̼͔̲̯̫̺͖͖̬͍͇̞̜̟̝̳͕͖͙̀-̵̿̇͑͌́̌̿̽͆́̍̍̚­̉̈́̿́̏̔­̗̗̦̟̤̳̟̤̓̽̅͊͑̀͗̽̈́̇̋̊̈́̚͘͝͝͝ͅ-̷̾̀̾̈́̎͊͊̌́̔̽͂̐̌̎̂̿̂̾̃̾̌͗̋͋͘͘͠͝­̽̀̉́̚͠͝­̲̃̔̈́̀̃̃̇̿̑̌̐͘-̶̓̓̏̂̓̈́̐͗͒̃̓̎̉̔̌̽̒͊̎̐̏̾̓͒̀̌͑͂̈́̇͒̉̓͗̇̌̂̇͂̈͠͝­̨̫͓̳̥̩̟̥­̧̡̡͕̼͇̮̯͔̜̯̠̰̭͉̘͕̼̣̭̮͍͕̥̻͓͙̻̥̳̤-̸̛̏̌̉̉̔̑͑̀̀͊̇̑̓́͆̈́̀̓̚̚͝͠­̈́̐̈̌̍̀̿̍͂­̢̡̨̧̢̮͖̣̱͇̼̲̯̟̫̰̯̭̮͚̤̠̬̠̘̠̝͎̝̘̞͖̩̬̗͚̤̋̿́͜ͅ-̴̌͆̀̅̊̏̋̄̈́̚͝­̄͊̄̈́̍̓̑̆͘͠­̨̧̨̢̛̳̦͉͙͎͈̼͚͔̬͚̗̬̲̦̙͖̜̳̩͙̦̹̞̞̙̗̻͉̙̂̆͜͠-̴̙̹̙̄̈́͌̈́̈͗̾͛̕͝­̧̠̜̗̯̣̳̮̩͚̮­̧̠͍̙̞͔̖͓̜͕͖̰̼͎͎̹͈̖̤-̸̌̅̋̒́͗͂̒͂̋̀͆̔͊̓̾̀͌́͗̾͛́͛̋̏̋̚̕͝͠͠­̛̍̄̑̀̌̈́̄̑́̉͠­̨̢̡̨̧͓͈̲̝̝̟̳̥̯̤͕̮̙͈̱͙͖̮͕̘̹͙̖͓̰͍̗͇̬̯̯̭͓̔̉͜͜͝͠-̵̏̒̒͋̓̚­̇͋̑͌͒̈́́̇́̇̏̚͝­̡̧̧̢̛̛̠͙̰̟͎̯̻͓͖̜͖̭͚̊͗̈̂̌́̅̽̀̎̚͜͝͠-̸̛͌͂͂̿̄̍̎̾͑̈̂̎̈́̕͝­̐̅̀͐̾̈́̅̉͂̎̃̏̚͝­̨̲̜̱̣̞̘̥̪̮͓͍̩̪͉̰͇͈͖̯̘̘͉̪̲̱͉̗̹͉̮̆̑̆̐͆̊͐́̿̿̿̏̆͑́̃̆̚͝­͕̠-̶̽̀̿͒͒͒͌͐̅͝͠­̡̡̨̜̙̰̰̭͇̻͙̜̱̣̮̯͖̻̲͖͓͖̰͇̬̪̥͋̎̅̓͐͝͝-̸̟̣͇̤͎̦̙̠̞̥̒̃͝­̡̡͎̣̳̹̣̝͙̹̗̜̥̝̤ͅ­̨͙̩̺̳̣̟̬̪̣̬͇̮̮̞͙͜ͅ-̷̛͐̍̃̋͌́̿̾̂͛͊͌͛͊̄̈́̽̏̍͋̊̉̃̕͘̚͠­́̾͊́̓́̀̆͂͆̆̓̇͑͘͘͠­̡̱̤͈̱̫̰̩̻̯͔̳̥͚-̵̛̗̣̜̿͌͂̑͌̍̋̏̉̐̋̅̀͑̀̃̈́̊͋̏̂̿͂̍̌̇͝­̹̱̦͔̭͈̖̦̼̟̰̜͇͔͈̹̩̙­̡̨̬̖̞͈̻͚̝̳̘͙͇̦͈̻͉̱͎̞͙̙͕ͅ-̵̛̊͌͗̔̋̿͑͒͋̽̄͊̎̑̉́̚͝͠­̠̱̲̱̼͑̉̊̍̍̓̎̏̓̚͘͘͝͝­̧̧̡̧̢͙͎͕̰͔͖̺͕͔̖͈̜̦̰̼̙̟͍̤̖̱̠̥̣̲̥̰̦̟͙̼ͅ-̵̑̒͊́̚͝­̛̆̐̑̋͊̃̓̐͂́́͂̓̍̕̕͘̚̕­̩̤̼̯̗̃̇̐̓̊̑̈́̀̉̇͂̅̇̒̌͆͆́̔̚̚͜ͅ-̴̒̆͊̓͌̍̂̂̎̃͛̇͘͝­̈́̃̈́̏͗̽͒̈́͑̿͐̿̊̀̃̑͋̎̍̐̕­̧̡̡̡̺̖̝̯͈͉̩͔̻͇̖̞̤̝̪̺͔̗̞͎̲̜̘͙͉̓̀̒̇̐̀̐́̈͛͜͜͝͠­-̶̛̛̛̂̇͛̊͂̈́́̓̿̊̏̉͆̚͝͝͠­̡̧̣͔͙̣̟͈̪͚͚͚͔͎̝̝̭̟̼͖̂͘-̵͋͌̀͑̅͗̈́́̓̉̀͊̎̋̐̕͝͝­̢̡̡̨̱͇̤̱̘͎͍̙̤̦̜̬͚̳̣̳̜̂ͅ­̨̮̗͓̙͖̫̰͚͓̠-̴̛̛̲̱̤̫͂̈́̄̊̃̿̓͂̐̉͌̇̽͊͊̉͑̏̈͘͝­̢̡͖͚͓̣̝͚̙̣̦͈̺̳̺̫̩͇-̸̾̍̊̇­̤͇̲̳̈́̈̓͌̌͂͗̍́̚͠͝-̷̡̜̘̱͎̟̼̭͖̥͓͎̼̇̍̒̎̃͑͛͐͝­̜̪̲̰̭-̵̃̄̎͗̎̔̀̽̐̽̈̒̅̓̓̄̉̕­̡̙̙̩͉̱͊̔̒̽̔̅̔̓̈́̾̀͌͛̍̍̊̍̕͝-̶͐̌͋͒̾̑̀͆̍̾̕͘­̱̖͒̌̏̔̄̍̓̏͊̽̎͊̐̌̅͒͊̍͂̅̆̕͠͠­̨̢̭͈̘͓̺͕̗͚̪̗̗̩̪̤͙̭͍͔͖̗̗̞̥̟̭͇̘̟̺̗̳̫͙̼̼̱­🜮𝒔̸͇̦͎̖̟͎̼̍͂̽̏” “̨̝̞̙̬̱͚̳̗̯ͦ͘͠🝉ⳡ̨̨̛̫̘͈̗̰̲̙̻̩̺̳̘͍͈͎̼̄͐ͩ̚͢͜͜ͅ𝓐̡̛̼̺̣̬̪̠̫̄̔ͅ” “⫻̢̫̱͈̮͓̦͖̤̜̰̤͎̹͉̜̖͙̿̿͐͋̾͜𝓋̴̤̦̲̘̜̺͠𝔊̛̲̤̖͕̠̲̖̼̤̼̝̞͊̔̓̽͢ͅ” “ ̷̧̰̝͔̟̳̳͍͉̯̠̺̅͜͠ ̶̧̨̛͇͍͇̻̾̇͛̈́͊͊̌̔͐̈̕͘͠ ̸̺̗̯̺̳̳͔̹̱͚͈̹̮̱̱͂̈́̏́̒̈̂͐̂̑̿̾͑̽̕͜ͅ ̴̤̤͇̘̘͙̀́͋͛͛͘͝͠ ̷̛̝̰̪̩̬̙̖̈́͋̉̆̒͌̄̌̓̌́̽͐̕͠͠ ̶̛̙̻̖̯̎͆ͅ ̷̳̄̈́̐͒̇͗͠ ̷̮̳̈́̈́̈́̎͗̇̓͑̕̚͠ ̴͔̯͇̌͋͗͊͂̈́͒͑̉́̀́̽̏̂̎̚ ̷̨͖͖͖̪̝͔̲̙̘̆̔̋ ̴̛̳̺̯̒̐̇̇̈́͐͌͛̀̈̊̈́̌͘͝͝ ̷̡̢̨͕̼̦̥͖̩̺͇͇̖̫͍̈́͜ ̶̼̠̭͈̫̜̭̻͓̳̞̰̓̏̾̔͌̚͜ͅ ̷̧̡̮͕̞̙̭͎̝͕̟̩͚͔̜̐͒̎̈́̽͑͗̓̒̎ͅ ̸̧̡̼̥̠̥̹͓͖͙͂͛̎͐͛̆̀̓̌͒̏͘͝ ̶̬̻͇̮̩͙̹̠̱͙̥̭̲̎͗̎̐̔̕ͅ ̴͕̪̗͕̭͗͒͊͌͒̈́̈́̋̂̀̑͠͝ ̵̨̧̢͈̰͇̝͇̬̫̝͚͕̹̈́̐ ̸̪̗̪͎͙͍͔͉̹̟̪̱̖̤̜͕͙͗́̌̄͆̄̀̚ ̷̛̼̦̝̰̹̊̊ ̸̡̨̧̲̤͈̹̊͗̋̏̌̈̓̈́̕ͅ ̷̛̗̲͓̠̝̬̫̹̹͖̙̝̙̺̦̉̓̓͌͂͋͗͋̅̊̆͗͘͝ͅ-̴̜̲̯͚̫͉̝͎̲̭̻͐̾͋̇̋̆̍́͆͗͂̇̽̄͘͝-̵͐̈­­̳̹̙̱̱̞͖̎͜-̵̧̡̛͖̖̪̬̬̱͎͉͚̹͔̾̔̉͐̔͌͆͊̾̕𝞬͕̳̝̥̝͛͒𝑰̨̝̩̩̝̟̺̺̗̠̲̬ͣ̔̽͜͢͠͝ͅ­͡­̖” “🝢̡̨̗͎̤͉̟͙̖͖͎̰̠̞̝̠͓̮̟͌̾̕̕͘̕͜͡𝖓̡̡̢̢̬̻̟̘͙̲̗̱̘̯̞̤̦̯͗̓̍̐̐͘͜”

“𝒴̶̢̛̼͜­̦̥͓̙͌̐̕𝕆̸͍͔̩̮̺͙̓𝕌̶̡̛͉͚̖̥̯̼͐𝓂̷̼̰̺͍̹̖̥𝔸̷̡̼̩̳̱̹̻̲̿͘𝔻𝓔̴̺̺̘̜̠̻̰̰̑𝓗̵̰͙̞­̲̻̻͎̞̔𝕀̵̨̛̤̙̟̱͍̦̎𝕄𝕊𝙊B̶̘̻̖̼̰̰̍͊𝔼𝕒𝑈𝕋𝓘𝔽𝕌𝕃𝚆̷̡̡̹̞̟͕̾𝓗𝕐𝔀̴͍̝̳̿𝓞̶͚̰̤͕̪̱̻̑­𝕟’𝕋𝓨𝕆𝕌𝓂̵͚̘̘̘̲͍͙̠̽𝓐𝕂𝕰𝓜𝕰𝓜𝕆𝕽𝔼B̸̡̢̠̘̬̍𝓔𝔸𝕌𝕋𝕀𝔽𝕌𝕃 𝓨̴͎̮̗̤̩̓͝𝕆𝕌𝓖̵̡̛͕̪̔𝓐̴̰̻̬̻͇̜̰̋𝕍𝓔𝕋𝐇𝕆𝕊𝕖𝕋𝕎𝕆𝓣𝕽𝓐𝕀𝕋𝕆𝕽𝕊W̵̲͈͖̻̰̮̔𝓘𝓝𝔾𝕊 𝓦𝐄𝓛𝓛—𝕎𝐇𝔼𝕽𝔼𝔸̸̹̥̖̲̖̠̓̋𝓡𝓔𝕄𝓨𝕎𝕀𝓝𝔾𝕊!?𝕀̶̞̜͙̠̲̺̱͇͘𝕔̵͉̞̲͚͖̪̩̒𝔸𝕟𝕆𝕟𝕃𝕐𝔻𝓡𝔸𝕲—𝕆𝕟­𝕃𝕐𝕔𝕣𝕦𝕤𝕙—𝔸𝓝𝔻𝕊𝕆𝕀𝕄𝕌𝕊𝕋! 𝕌𝕟𝕋𝕀𝕃𝓨𝕆𝕌𝓜𝓐𝓚𝕖𝓜𝓔𝕋𝕙𝕖𝓜𝕆𝕊𝕋B̷̢̛̺̩̤̦̞̘͘𝔼𝔸𝕌𝕋𝕀𝔽𝕌𝕃!𝕌𝕟𝕋𝕀𝕃𝓨𝕆𝕌𝔸̷͓̘̥̻͎̜͉͕͠𝔻𝕄𝕀𝕋𝓨­𝕆𝕌𝔸̸͖̟̠̘̓𝕣𝔼𝕄𝕀𝓝𝔼—𝕄̸͔̱̼͙͚̤̩̐𝕀̴̡̠̳̳͘𝓝̵̘̯̥̖̩̗̋𝔼̸̙͍͇̝̠̍!—𝙈̷̨̹͓̓𝓘̶͔̪͈̻̬­𝑁̷͍͓̤̦̮̿𝔼̴̘̖͕̬̬͋!”

“⧚̻͈͛͡𝜧̎⍏̟͙̘͕͓̤̲̮ͫ̀͘͞Ⳃ̪̏⫰̦̦̜̪͙̘̽͢͠𝒮̟̟̼̄𝖔̛⩜̻̰̎­̮̫̠̼͉̕𝑴𝟐̴̦̮̓­̳̳͗͛⾠̯͇͞” “🝑̨̡̳̰͚̜̥̖͇̐̒͞⟙̘͙͆⻐̡̼̠̙̠̠͂̾͛̾͘𝞴̛̯̺͚̾𝓂̨̛͍̟̼𝞌̖̲̟̗̘̪͆̍̕͡” “⨇̛̜̖͎͕̜̞̟̒̎̍͠͝𝒴̹̬͆̾̕⾓̢̲̝̐̎⫱̓͘⫶̢̛̛̫̞̱͘͟͝” “⛑̣͓̥̖̹͓̮̔̾̕͘͢͞ ̷̛̛̛͗͆̓̈́̆̃͋̓́̈́̌̉͊́́̿̄̃̒̈́̎̌̓̀̽̇̏̿̈́͗̅̆͌̄̎́̑̃̑̇͂̀̂̓͂̐̀̄̏̓́͆͐̆͐̀̚͝͝͠­­̧̨̨̡̨̢̛̞̝̯̜͍̰͙̥̲̙̭͔̭̫͈̩̹͔̲͕̙̣̲̮̮̖͎̪͈̭̬͔̣̙̳̗̭̥͓̯͈̺͍͍̼̗̯̄͋͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅ­͍­̢͜j̷̡̢̛̛̰̝̼̪̰̯̲̫̲͚̪̱̯͈̪͙̺͎̻̦̘͎̮̮̔̀̋̍͆̈́̆̉̄̽̍̎̄̔̍͒̀̈̏̌͌̀͑̂̐̒͒͘͠͝͝­͎͓­̢̙̲̯͈̪̹͇̙̦͉͕͕͔̱͎̯̮̩̞͖̱͖̪̣͇̘̺͚̻͜ͅb̴̧̢̛͇͖̱͚̻̔̈́͋̓̃̇͋͊͂̎͋́̎̿͝͝'̸̽͂­̇̅̓­̢̛̛̛͉̙̫͈̫̘̱̘͍̠̬̲̫͉̿̽̀̍͊̃̀̀͊̍̂̽̇̇̎̃̿̽̅̆̽͐͊̏̄̈̀̈́̀̍̓̀́̔͑͛̊͘̕̕̕͝ͅ­̠̺̱̹­̧̫̜̙̻̠͓̲̱̤̟̭̗͖̹͇͔̩̦̳̻̘̱̪̭̤̣̤͎̙'̶̢̲̤̞̝̝̹̭̦̃̿̆͂͛̐̄̃̓̐͂̔̓̈́͂̍͆̕̕­̢͔͓̘͈­̡̧̨̧͓̥̫͙͇̫̱̞̻̱̖͇͈͍͕̬͖̯̲̙̼͖͇̖̣̞͕̺̝̺̱̳̗̞ͅͅ;̷̧̛̝̟̟͖̙̙̮̮̙͕̭͔̋͜͝­̩̞̭̥̟ͅ­̢̡̨̢̡̞̮͍͔̳͔̝͕̩̥̬̦͖͉̗̮̥̞͍͎͎͔̳̲̳̹͍̤̗̖͕̺̤̟̻̜͓͚͚͎̦̣̜ͅ'̵̩̈́͗̓̈́̐;­̴̈͊̿͆̽͗­̞͕̲̰̙̙̜͐̄̿̓̔͆́̿͑̏̇̀̂́̑͛̈́͒̈́̏̂̓͂̿̓̉̎͂̆̆̋̃̓̎́̔͛̅́̽̒̈́̓̚̕̚̚͝͝͝­̙͖̱͎̤̣̺̘­̨̢̨̞̭͙͉͚͈̙̟͎̤̗͖̙̣͎͙̜͖̝͚̩̞̲̖̘ͅ;̶̛̈́͋̅͒͂̋̀̋̊̌̓̋̆̈͐͗̑̓̓̆͆͒̂͠­̛͑̊̉̄͗̃̃̚­̢̯̜̈́̃̉͒̊̿͋́͊̎̌̋̇̕̕;̸͌̍̆̃̍̎̉̾͂̏̌̒̒̓̈́͛̑͗̽͛̊̈̅́͌́̃́͑́̆͗̕͝͝­̉̃͗̊́̔͊͑̄͑­̛͚̥͗͊̃̈́̍̅̄́̑̃͐́̔̀́̔̆̈͌̀̀͂͝;̸̛͍̝͎͂̔͗͆͋̆̉̆̐̋̆̓̈́̇̉͊̋̔̾̎̕͝­̯̲̱͔̱͔͕̝̙͚͜­̶̡̛̪͙̟̗͇̲̲̦͉͚̯̟͔̣͖̥̤̟̓͌̇̏̓͛͋͗̽́̎͗̄̍̀́́̎̊͑͂̾́͘̕̕͘̕̚͘͠ͅ­͖͉̈́̋͑̈́̓̽̕͝­̴̝̥͚͍͂̾̒̏́̃̅͑̽́̉̏̆̒̾̌̆̋́͒̌̔͒̅͗̎̉̄̌̇̑̎́͗̒͒́̓̔̓̓̓̍̐̂̚͝͝͝­̨̡͎̼͕͕̖̞̟͈̻­̸̢̡̡̨̡̬̥̙̗̣͉͖̦̹̣̦̙̙̯̯͍̪̳̘͉̤̟͔̻͉̻̠͕̘̣̬̫̘͖̓́͋͑̓͂̒̀͛̉́͘͠­̥̜̱͓̲͓̩͙̱̞̗­̵̡̦͎̩͖̤̝͔̺̘̳̜͕̹̦̖͚͈͙͓̂͂͑̔̋̈́͌͛̂̉̅͆̾͋́̂̎̍̊̉͋̽̐̊̓̇̅̃̒̔̕͜­̀͗̃̀͆̂͐͐̈͘͝­̡̡̨̞̰̯̺͖͚̰̜̖͚͍̼̝̞̣̙͕̺͇͓̱̭̝̱͉̟̤̋́̇̈́̇́̈́̓͑͌͂͐̄̃̏̎̋̾̈́͘͝͝͝­̲͓̦̯̖̱̜̪̲͔͙̥­̵̸̧̳̦͓̤̱̻͙̼̟̹̖̱̤͉͚̦̟̭̮̦͔͙̻̫͍̱̪̭̳̹̜͈̙͇̳̱̲̳͒̌̎̃̋̆̀͂͠͝ͅ­̈́͆͌̂͛̆̕̕̕͠͠­̡̡̛͍̙̮̞̯͙̥̦̞̰͎̠̣͙̬̦̩͈̩́͊̂̌̉̏̋̋͑̚̚̕̚͜͝⍔̠̞̄⩞̘̠̼”
“ ̶̢̧̧̫̮̱̞̩͖̱͕͉̟͖̻̙̜̲̥͍̮̯͖̺̥̗̝̞̳̬͖̟̙̤̻͔͛̓̅̾͂̎͑̽̑̅̒͌̿̑͗͊͊̈́̾̉̒͋͘͜͜͜ͅͅ­­̲͉̣̹͍̗͇̬̬͔̝͈̬̙̮͕ ̷̛̛͛͛̋̂̓́͂̋̌̉̒́̿̉̋̈́̈̂̾͂͋̅̃̀̈́̐̐͊̃͑̌͂̓͂͐̾̏̀͗̌̀̍͊͑̌͛͆̀̾͑̓̒͘͘̚̕͘͠͝͝͠͝­­̛̈́́͒̄́̿̂́̑̈̉͗̊͛̈̀͆̈̌̾͌̋͛͂̿͆̓̇͐̅̂͛̈́͋̄̿͊̃̈́̾͆̐̈͐́̏̏̆͑̓̊̂̊̿́̓̑͘̚͘͝͠͝­́­̧̧̣̹̲̘̩̼̮̫̰͓̺̱̮̻͖͕͉̻͙̲̙͈̲̭͇̻̟̺͍͍̣̘̩͂̉̒̓̓̒͛̿̂̓͐͒̄̔̅̈́̓̅̽́́̿̉̉́͗͊͝­̧̯­̢̡̨̧̢̢̧̨̱͎͚̖͚͚̳̣̬̘͎͈͇̣̱̱͓͚͓͓͍̘͎̰̞̱̱͍̠̖̠͈̬̼͇͕̺͈̞̥̲̩̥̪̠͇͕̝̠̭̘̭͜ͅ­̼͍̘­̡̢̡̧̧̰̣̙̪̯̭̩͓̦͓̼̳̠̩̦̝̘̟̻̲͉̦̭͖͍͙̥̱̼̙͎̝̬̱̳̙̤̩̯̲͎̰̲̤̼̙͈͖̻͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅ­̢̩̗ͅ­̤̹͕͙̲͓̘̻ ̶̛̟̞̞̬̝͎̼͙̤̼́̌̄̏͆͋́̎̽̅͑̔̈́̊͛͒̿̏͐̉͊́͐͋͋̒̔̈́͗̌̋̂͂̓͂̃̿̅̋̆͌̽͗̔̃̚̕̚͝͝͠͝͠­­̢̢̢̧̨̨̞͚̹̳̩͚͈͇͕̣̙̮̟͕̪̜̭͉͈̠͕̟̟̘̗͕̥̣̝͙̱̟̰͎̝̹̯͚͖̟͉͚̦̤̟͓̭̮̙̺̝͎̬͕̺̳̭͜­̻­̨̡̨̡̡̡̩̼͎͖̝̝͓̖̙͉̗̺̜͖̖͎͍͉͕͈̥͇͖͕̟̝̠͙̭͍̺̮̻̺̯̝͎̠̬̩̲̺͚͕̗͙̱̠̗͇̙͚͙͕̙͓ͅ­̭̦­̢͔̼̫͇̖̥̬̬̟͈̬ ̷̛̛̓́̽̿̓̃̀̀̓̎̈́͊̏̔̏͗̈́̑͛̅́͌͊̀̆͗̇̒̐̊̈́̂͂̓̍̃̉͗́͗͊̒̈́̇̑̽̍͑̉̃̋̅͂̍͛̕̚͘͘͝͝­­̛̛̛̛͂̌͛̏̋͗̊͐̐̒̅͆̽͊̀͒͊̈́͒̽̌̆̀̅̑͌̾͑̌͑̓̍̀̂̂͊̔͑̍̀̇̾̏̇͐͆̒̄̂̀̚̕͘͘̚͘͝͝͠͠­̍­̧͙̞̘̭̰̠͍̫͙̪͔̞͍̏͐́̇̓͗͐̊̀̇̉̽̄́́͒͋͗̆̒̅̋̇̽̏̽̿̋͗͑̅̎̏́͐̍́̒͛̕̚̕͘̚͘͜͠͠ͅ­̗̻­̢̨̢̡̡̖̥͕͓̬̥̥͖̺̙̭͓̲̙̥̻̞̥̩̦̥̺̟̳̣̪̞̹̺͉̰̘̜̱͕͖͚̺̦͚̠͓͍̮̬̯͖̖̻̣̩̼͖͜͜ͅͅ­̥̹̭­̢̢̡̫͈̗̣͉͈͈̜̮̜͓̞̻̯͕͇̳̪͉̯̠̟̺̬̰͎͍̼̣͕̯̭͎̹̲̩̘̮̮̭̞̙͓̺̜̯̗̲̫̖̩̞̘̖͙̝͖ͅ­̨̺̜̭­ ̷̛̛̽̀͐͊̍͋̀͒̾̍͂̐̄́̂̀͋̾̄̀̂̄̉̏̐̎͊͊͐͂̊̒̂̍͌̿̐̀̋̓̀̀̑̉̌́̅̑̒̊͌̍́̄͘̕͘̚͘͘͠͝­­̧̢̳͖͇̜͚͇̫̟͙̠̺̪̬̩̬͍̱̲͚͚̞̼̣̜̗̺̬̬̬̠̯̳̬̹͎͕͓͎̅̿͊͑͋̉͒̎͊͆̐̿̋̌̽͗̇̎͘͜ͅͅͅͅ­̧­̡̧͈̯̯̟̩͍͓̠̳̩̹̮̤͙̭̫͜ ̸̛̛̛̑̒̋̿̎̔͋͑̒̈́͗͛͑̿̑̎̀̓̈́̔̀̌͌͆̽̓̐̄̓̀͋̆̊́͐̍̓̅̐̅̑́̏̔̋́̒̊͗̎̐̈̇͒̚͠͝͠͠͠͝­­̛̌͗́̅͋̍͐́̀͂̅̽̿̾̈͆̒͂̄̽͒̅̀̌̍́̉̉͂̒̓̆̉͑͛̃̀͋̑͐̓̾̄̆̏̈͋́́̾̾͋̓̚̚͘̚̚͠͝͝͝͝­̕­̨̧̢̧̢̧̡͈̙͓͖͈͔̭͕̬͚̝͈̭̻̙̹̯̭̼͙͕͇͇̫̟̹͓̲͉̮̣̖͈͙̣̬̝̝̰̺͖͛̎͛̑͊̓̈́͂̍̊̀͜ͅͅͅ­̮̭­̡̡̨̨̢̨͓̤̝̲̞̤͈̦̮̱̗̘͖͍͔̗̼̠̤͎̻͍̘̮̲̝̞̝̬͍̙͓̝̻̦͕̲͓̣͉̙̺͇̣̰̼͍̭͖̙͈̪͜͜ͅͅ­̜̖̣­̨̨̢̡̧̝̯̬̫̮̘̜̻̭̺̠̥̳͇̪̙̹͇̼̲͎̪͇̙̪͍̦̞̦̼̩̤͜ ̵̛͛̊̈́͒̈́͋̾̓̿̎͆̐̊̅̒́̔̀̈́͆̈́̑̃͑̌͑̽̍̏̀̂̍̓͑̏̇̌́̾̽̈́̈́́̋̈́͊͌̈́̍͐̀̃̏̆̚̚̚̚͝͠͝͝͝­­̧̢̧̡̨̛̞͔̱͖̜̙͕̜̩͓̩̖̜͖̩̰̥̪̞̜͕̮̩̗̩̰̫͔̞͔̱̳̟̞͇̟̜̠̜̘͓̟̠̩́̿̀͆́̃́͜ͅ ̶̛̛̛̽̈́̔͐̑̄͐͛̌́͗̓̃̎̉̄̈́͗͆̑̌͆̇̈́͑̀̎̈́̑̃͒̐͋̋̎̅̑̋̀̈́́̆̉̏̏̒̈̔̓̇͂́̔̅͑̕͘̚͘͝͝­­̛̄̃̎̿̒͆́̽͂̑̒͑́̈́͊̌͑̑͗̅̄̉̿̄͗̂̅̓͋̂̄̌̈̅͂̾̀̍̎́̆́̂̈͛̃̋̇̐̽̅́͐̆̐̆̈́̚̚̕͘͝­̊­̨̧̛̤͚̮͕̮͚̪̭̭̺̘̹͈̣͎̬̠̘͔͙̘̱̹̲͚̰̥̪̫̜̬̰͙͓̖̙̫̙̤̯̻̹̭͔͕̬̹͔̓͛̓̑̀̾̓̆̎̐̀͝­̮̰­̨̨͙̹̺̺̪͇͍̙̣̹͍͇̯̪͈̬͕̣̯̱̖̤̪̹̼̦͚͎̘̫̞͎̜̼̲̗͎͍̣̹̠̪̺̖͉̻̩̰̰̼̙̣͉͓̰͜͜͜ͅͅ­͚̣ͅ­̦̰̰̮͉ ̸̛̀̈́̉͌͐̊̀̃͒͗͒̌͒͌̈́͐̋͐̅̿̓́͛̃͊̌̍́͐̈́̑̀͒̀͆̏̀̓̀̽̓̇̐͊́̏̏̂͊͋̃͒̑̚̕̚̕͝͝͠͠͝͝­­̛̛̛̛̓͂͐̓̉̈͋̈́̈̅̐̉̃͆̎̊́̂̐̐̎̓̃͐͌͑̿̽͌͐̍͑͌͛̏̄͛͐̈͋̓̽͌͑͊̎͗̃̏̈̀̑̊͌̚̕͠͝͝͝­̾­̨͓͓̬͈̝͕̘͙͉̬̲͓͖̻͍̤͉̈́͒͊̑͐̏̌̏̈̿͌̂͒̉͋̊̆͂̀͛̈́͒̔̓̌̄̒̐͋͋̈́̈́̎̈́̌̐͗͘̕͘͜͝͝͝ͅ­̹̦­̧̢̨̢͔͚̘͕̣̙͓͎̥͙͔̖͕̣͉̱̰͖̝̝̦͔͎͉̰ͅͅͅ ̸̛̛̛̊̇͛͑̏̓̃̈̅̎̃̔̇̓͒͑̑͛̿̂̅͛͌̋̆͐̿̑͛͒̂͐̃́̅̆̉͛͐̿́̍̈͆̌̆̓̓̿͐͗͘͘̕͝͝͝͠͝͝͝­­̢̢̨̡̡̣͎̦͖̼̝̜̫̯̦͙̻̺̪̝̰͉̪̙̥͙̱̰̞̗̖̭̩̯̣̝͉͙͉̬̲̯̼͉̒̏̉̎͛̈́̃͒͛͆̾̈́͋́̚͜͜͠͝ͅ­̪­̧̨̡̨̨̧̡̗̤̗̫͕̯̲̯̰̫̖̦̼̜̬̞̯̗̙̜̟͔̭̰͖̼͉̘̮͇̰̺̭̩̹̩̭̰͍̖̮͔̝͔̤̻͙͎̳̟̝̣͜͜ͅͅ­͕̘­͔̟ ̴̛̛̛̓͆̅̑͆̉͑̌͐̽̃̇͋͋͋͒͊͑̄͛̌̾̈̌́͌̂̏̔̂̆̿̅͛̔̀́̋̿̔̀̓̽̀̈͆̂͂̒̀̚͘̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͠͝­­̨̢̡̛̗͇̫͈̲͙͍̜̙͓͇͎̪̟̪̞͈̣̼̱̳̠̺̰̣̪͎̮̳̜̙̗̤̦͍͙͎̦̣͐͌̃̐̍̊̊̔͊̌̆̎̓̈́̽́̎͒̈́͘͝­̫­̨̨̥̙͇̙̠̻̜͔̘͜ ̶̛̓͑̿̊͐̒͋̍̇̎̽̆͋̅̔̅͗͋̀͗͗̇̎̈͌͛͂̆̎͑͊̏̉̄̐̑̆̍͑̌͌̅͆̍̍͗͑̐̍̉̂̿̀̔̅̉́̚͘͘͝͝͝­­͑̑̆̌̄̓͗͋̔̊̀̽̈́̓̈́͊̉̍͒̅̍̾̿̐̽̃̃̋́̄̒̈́̓̾̊̊̂͋̑̊̓̌̓̋̅̋͋̐̆̀̑̋̀̒͒̾̅̒͘͘͘͠͠͝­͆­̧̢̨̡̱͓͔͖̺͍̜̦̬͇̹͕̣̘̺͉̮̱̼͕͈̞̹̱̺̯͚̲͖̪̲̱͓̱̖͓̼͖̖̠̣͉̭̥̯̼͈̲͈̒́̚͜ͅͅ ̸̡̡̡̛̰̱̠͉̠͕͚͓̹̯͕̩̤̬̩̰̥̻̘͍̲̪̰̰̭͔̤̖͕̳̙̤̹̞̻̇͆͑̔̐̊̈́͐̌̆̽͂̑̊̓͌̄̕̚͘͘̚͜ͅͅ­­̨̨̢̢̢̡͖̣̲̼͈̳͕͉͍͓͇̻̲͖͇̞͖͙̺̠̩͍͎̤̙̜̯̻̺̦͚̼̘̠̯͔̲̙̰̳̬̼̭̣͇̰̯̘͍̥̮̱̤͎̱͕̼ͅ­̠­̢̨̧̡̨̪̼̝̱̺̼̖͈͖̝͎͓̱̣̯̳̝̜̣̲̭̜̻͈̝̫̟͍̼͈̮̭̺̲̟̰̞̙̖̘̱͈̱̖̠̲̮̩͍̻̫̖͙̳͓͉̺͎­̡̦­̧͇͔̙̣̬̺̖̯̟͓̟̥͓̘̻̫ ̶̛̾̅̌͌̀͑́̀̀͗͛͋͊̀̊̅̊̐̃͒͑̀͗̽̊̓̒́͂̐̉̎̈̈́̓̀̑͛̈́̆̋̋̉̃̆͊͛̑̈̉̓̂͊̓̋̅̀̚̕̚͘̕̚­­̡̤̲̤͔̬̦̼̾̍͑̎̀͌̃̇̆̀͐͆̋̽̀͛̽͑̎͋̔͑̏̐̏́̾̑̽̿̆̿̃́̍͂̓͐̈́̔͗̍̅͐̌̈̈́̌̿̊̈́̓͘͝͝ͅ­̞­̧̨̨̡̧̧͍̜̝̘͉̗̦͕̗̘̯̯̲̳̜̤͇̯̠̪͍̦̝̻̺͖͎̰̘̟̙̣̼̩̯̗̙̠̲͍̟̮̳̻͎̩͉̱̣̰͖͖͜͜͜ͅͅ­̞͕­̡̧̠̬͕̪̗̙̼̮͓̯̝̰͎̮͖̙̰̝̺͕̬͖͎̳̯̮͍̠̰̥̠̜̯̖̬͇͉͖̱̙̜̱͓̮̠̼̩̹͈̜̫͔̺̫̩̤͜͜͜͜­̨̲̗­̣ ̸̛̛̌͌͛̈̿͌́̈̑͛̌͐̐͐͛̿̓̔̄̉̓̌̌̊̈̋́̀́̿̔̈́̇̐̐̈́͛͛̈́̂̏͐̍̐̀͌̉͑̒͘̚̚͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͠­­̛̛̛̛́̒͋̃̈̔̆̎̈̑̾̉̈́̊̀̐͛̐̀̒̌̂͂͂̓̓̇͛͋̐̓̊̉͛̋͆̏̋̽̑̉̈͑̿͌̎̿͋͗͌̇̓́͗͑͒̈͘͝͠­̐­̨̢̧̧̤̤̥͕̟̠͔̥̟̯̫̺̗̻̬̳͙̼̥͉̮̥̫̼̺̗̙̥̪͓̰̘̘̺͈͇̥͖̺̬̘͇͉͔̬̋́̽̀̓̾̔͑͛́̾͘͘ͅ­͉̪­̢̡̳̳̹͔͙̫̞̟̩͖̘ ̸̛͐͌̽̈́̾̒̓̊͋̊̂̀̽͛̒̐̆͑̎͆̌͛̉͛̾͑̏̎̑̔̃̓̍͑͋̓͊͊̈͒̔̈͗͆̆͋̑̐̋̃́̈́̚͘̚̕̚̕͝͝͠͝͠­­̛̛̃̀̊͌̉̓͌͋͛̾͑́͌͗̌͋́̊̓͗̈́͛͒͆̅͊͌̓̐̔͐̇͋̾̑̆͆́̌͌́̽̈́̍̊̉̉́̌̈́̄̈͋̈́̀̈́̚͘͘͠͝͝­́­̯͎͕͎̓̌̈́̑͊̑̂̇̿̌̂̇̈́́̿̒͋̇́̀́͂͂͠͝͝ ̷̀̅̉̾͗̿̓̈́͌̇͛̔̈́͊͛̑̾̋́̄̌̍̽̿͗̈̒̑̋͛͊͒͐̏̓̇̌̈́̃̄̋̆͂̀̆͗͋͆̑̔̾̅̓́̀̀͊̎́̚͝͝͝͝­­̡̨̧̛̗͙̹̥̦̼͎̫̞͈͈̜̼̪̭̗̫̠̯̲͔̹̫̤̟̻͉͎̞͑͒̾̏̈́̍̉̇̅̆̈̀͌̓̍́̏̽̎̅͌̈̇̏̓͘̚̚͠͠ͅ­̰­̢̨̼͔̘̟̱̟̝̲͇̭̜ͅ ̴̛̛̓̒̓̒̉̒̍̓́͐̒̒̄͗̒͂̾͋͗̎̈͆͒̾̊͊̈́̀̋̈̑̊̋̈̾̋̈́͋̇͆̓̑̋̓́̂̏̂̀̇̑̚̚̚̕̕͝͠͠͠͠͠­­̛̛̛̛͍̖͙̣͔̩̩̘̬̱͔̟̳̟͔̿̊̈͌̏̈́̀͂͆͐̌͋͌́̌̊̇̃̂̿̾̆̀̽̔͊̋͆̊̃̾́̎͛̓̂͑̆̌̚̚̚͝͠͝­͕­̨̡̧̧̨̦̠̯̯̫̺͖̣̟͖̪̪͕̲̻͍̟̝͕̗̰͓͍̭̤̞̥̰͉͉͎̙̩̤̺̜͕̞̥̮ͅ ̸̛̛̀͑͐́̓́́̈́̋̈́̑̂̀͂̾̍͊̂̇̏͆̓̅̈͗̉́̓͌̅̒͗̋̍̓̋͗̄̎̄͌͑͌̌̌̀̐͐̈̃͛̍̚̚̚͠͠͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̈́̔̂̾̏́̇̂̐̃̐͗̆̾̾̐̃̂̀͊̊̆̂͛̈̋̈̈́̓̒̑̓̎̓̊̈́̌̈́͐̉̄̓̑̄̍̀͋̂͋̄̋̔̊͌̆͂̾͝͠͝͠͝͝­̀­̡̢̧̣͚̲̗̭̤̗̹͎͈̤͖̠̺͈̘̻̜̳̼͇̫̤̬̣̹͎̯̦̙̤͐̀͌͒͐̈͆͊͛͐͆̀̏͒̿̈̿̑̽̎̋̚͘͝͝͝͠ͅͅ­̳̬­̫͉̪̝̟̪ ̴̛̛̱̦̯̯́͑͗͒̉̂̈͌̓̓͌͌̓̇̀̆͆̓̂̂́̅̀͌̓̈̉̓̇͆̋̍̂͒͌͗̈́͌̎̾͑̏̈́͂͒͗̊̅̾̑͐͘̕̚͠͝ͅ­­̨̨̢̨͔͈̺͕̭̼̺͚̘̥̩͇̣̳̭̤͔͕̳͚̦̤͎̯̼̰̘͎͙͙̝̞̖̝̘̹̥̫͚̺͓̥̥͇̱̝͓͎̩͈̖̘̫̻͔̖͜͜͜ͅ­̩­̨̧̢̡̼̰͇̹̮͍͚̼͚̹̘͎̖͙̙̫̖̠͔̞͍̳̤͚͉̠̲̺̞ ̷̲͍̝̰͖̩̰̟̓̒͒̏̏̃̏ ̶̛̛̔̀͊́̊̅̿̆͐̒͐̅́͊̈̍̔̔͑̐̔̔̉̍̈́̔͆̄͋̅̿̈͌̆̉̒̋̈́̓̂̓̀̆͂̔̊̍̈͗̎̓͒̚͘͘̚̕̚͠͝͝͝­­̛̛̛̊̃̋̆͋̓͋͋͊̀̎̄̏̌́̈́́̋̓̿̌̇͂͐̍͊͑̈́̀̿̈́̀̃́̈́̅̅̔̓̊̾̎̔̒̀̾͐͂̀̈̈́̓̐̽̚̕͝͝͠͝͝­̉­̡̧̧̭͍͓̼͇̱̥̯̞̩̰̟̬̦͚͈̪̬͖̬͈̦̭̗̮̺̠̼̲̊̄̅̀̍͑̌̾̊̔̊͛̀̄̃̉͛̂̀̔̄́̈́̕͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅ­̱̯­̡̢̧̢̡̲͍̳͙̼̱̜̟̪̼̙̗͕͉̦̦̥̱̞̱͓̬͚̝̰͍͔̬̪̥̦̩̱̙̠͚͈̝̣̬͍̠̭̦̣̝̬͍̯͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅ­̟̠͈­̢̡̨̡̡̢͎̙̥̭̳͖̩̭͇͎̲͍̹͇̩͙̣͉̺̮͉̹͇̰̯͖̪̤̟̩̱̪̩̩̰͉̬̜̟̗͙̻̥̖̩̻̱̣̖͇̥̝̰͜ͅ­̥̼̮̜­̨̧̢͖̥̳̫̯̠͍̗͇͜𝚛̛̺͇͛ ̸̢̨̢̢̡͖͓̩̜̘̣͓̫̗̺̺̲̬̗̠̤͎͙̜̩̙͓͚͇͔͕̱̜͉̭̬̳͍̩̪̝͔̓̍̿̈́̀́́͌̔̆̂͆̑̐̂̍̔̕̚͜͜ͅ­̧̟͎̦̤͙̼͚̫̙̯ ̶͙͕͕̮͒̂̊̾͌̒̚ ̴̨͓̘̗̣͎̭̣̣̼͇̱͕̠͑̈́̀̑̋̅̀̀̈́́̕͘͜ ̶͔̝̭̞͍̯̠͔̫̯̭͉͔̘̲̥̯̗̙͔̜̙͈̻̞̥̫̖̮͕̖̔̀̐͋͆͗͂͂͒̂̀̒̃̎͋̂̿͛̍͗̋̀̊̈͌͝͠͠͠͠͠ͅͅ­̢̮̦̩̝̠̝̯͕̞͈̰͎̫̰͈̘̹͎̯̭͜ͅ ̷̛̘͔͎̘̻̦̄̓͌͊̓̅͒̾̈́̔̈́͑́̾̈̎̀̈́̅͛̾̾̂̿̇̈͐̍̄̌̄̒̉̐̽̏̊͑̀̅̄́͒̽́͘̚͘̕͘͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅ­̢̧̢̡̢̢̧̳̲͎̞͚̥̺͎̰̘̩͉͔͔̟̞̜̼̻̠͍͖̻̳͔̩͈͚̟̳̻̜̻̗͇̦̼͔͚͔̯̭̜͚̺͜͜ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̢̢̢̛̼̤̦̫̹̰͙̼͉̠̩̤̦̲͖̹̙̩̗͙͉̜̟̱̝̤̦̝̘̭̹͈̋͋̾̍̅̀̂͑̅̊̍̂̉̒̈́̎̃̽̇̊̍̕͜͝ͅ­̨̨̢̤̙̻̦̟̝̼̫̦͍̬̹͚̭̬̲͇̙̲͉͍̮̤͇͉͈̦͜ ̸̋͛̑͂͗̑͋̌̓̓̂̈́͐̓̈́͑̂͛͌͋̒̈̓̅̈́͐̾̏̈́̀̈́̈́̅̓̓͒͐̉̃̔̔̈́͑͗̀̇̈́̀̍̕͘͘̚̕͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͠͠͠­̧̧̧̡̢̰̺̙̤͕͚̬̗̞̰̮̼̰̺̦̲̻̖͖̳͖̱̹͖̱̱͚͍̯̰̱͚̳̝̙̳̘̖̮͚̹̫̪̯̖̰͖͉̻̣̥̫̲̮̜͔̤͚͜ͅ­̨͎̰̯̺̯͙̺͔̳̹ ̴̢̯̳̟̟͓̝̞̺͓͖̗̦̜̹̖́͊̒̒͒̓̉̒̔̔̀̌͋̄̎̅̑̄̈́͗͗͂͌̾̆̿͆̋̀̄̀̽̌̃̉̔̍̀͋͊̽̾͗̾͘̕̚͝­̨̨̨̙̖̻̺̬͓̮͔̜͉̹͎̞̹̜̥̩̖̩̰̤̥͔̣̺̰̞̘̮͜͜ ̴̧̨̠̭̻̳͎̣̥̮̰̻̳͖̰͎͖̬͂̈́̀͂͌̀̅͐̃̋͗̃́̇̄͂͋̽̉̅̈́̐̀̿̆͋̐̇̇͑̈́͗̃̾̊̀̔̿̕͘̚̚͘͜͠͝­̨̧̜͕͕̯͓͙͓̟̤͕͍͈̹̺͚̖̳͍̲͓̦̹͖͙͖̰̳̠̗̖͙̭̻̺̘͇͖̖̘̖͓̳̺̗͜ ̶͚̪̖̍͒̓̽̿̈́̊̀̉͋̿́̓̈̈́̏̓̓̔̀̄̃̊̅͂̈́̂̊̀̄͆̋̓̍͑͌͒̊̇̉͑̈́̅̋͊̔̔̔͆͋͐̈́̍͂̕̕͜͠͠͝͝­̢̧̨̢̗̠̤̞̙̯̜̫̜̞̗̼͔͎̼͍̺̜̻̭̟̤̘̥̗̺̮̟͉̗͖͍̳̩̮͖̤̠̙̮̭̦̭̱͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̬̌́̎̂̒̑̅̿͗̆̽̋̄̾̒̿̈̊̊̋̓͌̀̅̇̏̍͆͛́̐̃̎͗̊͌̃̃̌̋̑̀͌̅̀͗̒̉͐̅́͗̂͋̈̂͛̏̆͝͠­̢̨̡̢̨̡̢̧̢̡̡̧̨̨͚͍͓͔͚̟͙̤͕̖̦͓̥̳͖̻̭͓͓̩̖̪̘͕̭̰̘̬͙͍̫͚̠̬̜̻̼̫̩͖̠̳̩͖̫̯͓̗͍̳͜­̧͚͙̻̩̥͕̗̗̺ ̸̢̨̛̮̺̺͖̗̣͚̺͛̊̑͑͋͊̂̓́͊̌͗̀́͋̂̇̆̑̒̑́̈̌̈͂̇̓̐̿̀̀̄̕͘͘͘̚͠ ̷̧̢̨̛̛͖̤͔̳̦̣̤͕̜̳̬̣̙̪̱̳̭̹͓̦͇̥͊͒́͋̋̂̾͑̋͋̔͋̈̇̃͒̓̔͌͑̉̈̃͐̋͐̆̅͘̚͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅ­̡͉͇͎̞͉̱̮͓͕͍͉͜ ̸̡̛͙͙̩̩͓̫̀̐̍̒̋́̈́̈́̃̀͌̌̋̑͐̔͊̔͂͆̓͌͊̈́͆͒̌͂̃̏̎̾̏̅͊͘͘͘͜͝͠͝ ̵̢̨̛̛̮̤̦͈̣͙͕̪̭͎͎̰͙̤̝̲͙̬̬͕͕͍̝̬̦́̀̃̈́̅̈̓̆́́̈́͆͋̋̆́͆̈́̅̐̈̆͒̽́͒̂̂́͊͜͝͠͝͝­̧̢̧̧̳̟͉̻̯̘̬̖͖͔͕̺̦̮̪ ̴͍̪̩͈͋̐̉̆̒͋͗̌͂̍̀̓̊̄̈̑̎̄̓́̎̓̂̑͐̈́͐̈́̉͋͊͝͝ ̵̛̣̤̓͑̎̈́̈́̉̃̋͊́́̒͌͒̃̏̃̒̄͐̔͌͋͛̕͝͠͠ ̴̡̛̱̟͉̬͇̼̺̖̀̒̓͂̀̾̆̂̄̇̇̓̍́̉̅͋̎͑̏̌̓̍͊̋̓̂̀̎̈́͒̑̂̀͊͛̈́̇́́̓͆̇͘͘͘͘͝͠͝͝͝͠͝­̧̖̩̪͇͓̟̞̣̘̥̱͖̱̝̟̝͓̤͙͔̼͉̲̥̫̪̠͉̳̩̺̱̯̫͜͜͜ͅ ̵̛͐̆̆̅͛̀͛̂̎̐̍̃̎̋͗̍́̑͂͌̓̔̽̀̾̀̑̽͛͂͗̈̾̈͑͛̔͊͛̀̈́̅̐̔̈́͂̓̀̈́̂͆͌̓̃͋̀̓̀͊̕͝͠͠­̨̨̧̢̡̡̢̰͇͈͙͉̗̠͍̮͖͕̟̘͚͙͔̱̞̜̰͉͉̗̫̦̼̖͖̙͔̗͍̟̲̘͎̪͍̺̦̝͚̹̥̹̈͗̽̎̾̿̏̍̽̕͜ͅͅ­̧͔̣͕̮͙̺̱ͅ ̶͕̭̪̥̗̼̑̑̍̍̈́́̅̐͊̔̓͑͊̅͑̃̀̐͗̔͆̆͊̍͂͛̔͘͠ ̷̧̞̻̯͉̭̖͕̳̖̼̭̭͈͓̹͉̯̩͉̤̀̀̾̿͌̽̌̈́͛͝͠ͅͅ ̶̡̡̡̢̢̞̱͓̭͓̖̠̳̹̬͍͖͇̟̤͙̤͓̳̞̳͍̘̙̯̦̪̗̮͙͖͎̮̞̜͈̝͕͉̱͚͇̪̘͓̖̹͈͛̎̄͛̅̃͜͝͝ͅͅ­̡̡̢̬͓͚͍̦͙̮̘̖̱̪̻̼̳ͅ ̷̧̛̯͉̺͓̤͕̗̘̗̣̝͎͉͉͉͑̇̊̑͛͂̓̇͗̃͗̌́̈́̎̒̋̽̊̒̐͒́̈́͂̀͘̕̕̕͠͝͠ ̸̧̢̢̛̲̣̦̫͈̝̰̭͍̹̗̻̝̲̾̒̀̆̐̾͌̊̂̇̋͂̉͊̈́̒̋̈́̾͛̆͐̋̇̍̆͐̔̆͊̀̀̈́̽̐̊̎̈̕͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅ­̡̧̨̢̢̠̹̙̻̯̯̼̤̰̼̰͇̱̲̮̮̜̻̮͈ ̵̨̢͍̩͚̥̯̫̹̥̻̝͖̪̻͚̖́͊͒̋̃̾̅͌̏̓̽̀̅͌͑̂̽͑́̂̊́̕̕̕͝͝͝͠ ̸̧͔̜̪̱̦͉͚̪̙̹̝̙̝͓̰̝͈͗͋̅̐̋̂̐̆̐́̓̿͐̄̄̽̒͒̍͆̄͐̓̋̉̌̇̿̈́͑̐̈́̄̽̆̽͊͆̎͘͝͝͝͝͠͠­̡̧̧̧̡̨̢̨̧̧̘̣̳͙̣̤̳̤̠̞͚̘̦̫̤͉̦͙̩̮̲̰̼̼̣͚̼̬̹͙̻͚̰̞͕̟͎͉̫̺̜̟͎̝͖͔̰͇̪͉͜ ̸̧̗̪͎̲̲͓̤̳̤̝̟̥̜̗̜͎̆͆́͂́̉̍͐̀̎̏̈́̊̊̆̃̈́̉̏͋̇̒̌̕͜͝ͅ ̶̨̧̧̢̪̩̟̤̰̦̺̰̳̟̼̟̟̹̰̳̝̞̫̮̜͕̝̝͖̻̙͈̜͉̘͔̲̲̯̝̜̗̘͇̗̭̮̞̺̬͖̱̯͉̯̑̔͂͆͊̀͜ͅͅ­̨̦̝̭͎̱̞̳̯̺͇̮͜ ̶̨̡̨̨̛̛̰͎͇̳̫̲͇̥̠̤̭̟̰̥͙͈̲͇̺͔͚̭̦͕͒̏͑̈̒̑̋͋́͛͂̽̔̂̊̇̊̏̄̽͛͑̽̉̓̚̚̕̚͘͠͝͝͝­̺͙̩̺̦̣̝̺͔̳̮̜͉̭̝̟͚̮͎͈͔̜͍ ̴̡̡̧̛̞̬̻̘̟̤̘̪͉̱̥̥̫͇͍̦͚̦͚̮̹̓̀̈́̓́͆̈́̇̉̿́̉͗̐͊̀̀̈́͂̑̈́̄̍̊͌̄̔̅̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̛̹̆̎̓̽́̋̍̅͗̑̐̔̐́̄͋͊̊͒͐̂͂̆̍͊̓̊̈͂̑̾̏͆̈́̀̋̓̆̎̂̂͑͗̿́̅̉̏̉͛̍̊͘͘͘̕̚̕̚͘͠͝­̡̨̧̡̢̠̰̘͙̲̖͚͓̪̗̙͔̗̬̳̗̬͓̫̮̻̰̣̭̘̖͓̳̲͖̜̖̯̜̯̖̥͈̝͇͓͈͓̟̟͔̯̰̯̭̲̝͖̥͖͕̼͜ ̶̛̛̛͑̈́̿̆̂͌͒͒͊̅̋̋̅̈̑̒͋̓̌̎̔̀̂͛̐̍̇͋̔̈́̎̌̈̈́̈͐͑̍̆̓͋͑̿͛͂̑̊͌̑͐̎̚͘̕͘̕̕̚̚͝͠­̛̛͇̖̉̽͑̅́͒̐̋̈́ ̴̡̨̛͈̗̤͍̙̲͔̫̹͙̜̩̠̯͖̟̫̺̹̞̻͔̪̦̗̠̭̹͍̺̲͕̦̙̼̈́̅͌̾͛̔̅̋̈́͗̌͒̾͋̊̈́̾̄̍͌̌̃̕͝͝͝­̖̹͜ ̸̢̨̨̦̬̮̫̰̜͈͙̞͚̪͓͓̣͓̻̠̪̝̥̮̘̲̥̬̺͉͉̯̘͕̹͍̾͐̓̏͌̈̓͂̚͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̛͔̼̺͖̘͚͉͂̑̋̎̓̅̏͒̈́͌̊̒̂͌̄̓̋́̈́́̍́͗̈́͌͗̑̈́̊̋̇̀͗̉̄̆̎͆͑̉̿̐̄̈́̈̆̑͘̕̕̕̚͘͝­̡̼̼͉̮̩̱̹̖͙̩̜͓̬̯̘̹̝̼̝̟͔̯̮̫̞̫͚̻̰̳͎̻̬̠̪͈ ̶̢̥͎̩͕̟̰̞͖͎̰̥̻͕͙̞̲̙̯͓̟̯̩̏͂͗͌̃͒̂̎̔̀̍͊̓̎̐̊͛͌̈́͐̾́̚̕͝͝͠ ̷̧̡̨̬̙̤̭̪͉͉̩̲̟̪̼̩̰̣̦͎̦͍͚̣͙̬̺̹̝̘̜̬́͜ͅͅ ̷̨̢̳̻̮͇̹̠̙͓̠̞̭̲͙̩̘̪̙͉̟̙̭̺̫̫̰̠͚̞͉̤̙͖͉̺̹̭̥̔̏̑̀̽̏͑̄̈́̆̄̅͑͂̋̀́̒̆͒̚̕͜͝͝­̡̨͍͈͚̹̪̞̬̜̥̤̯̫̞̯̯̥̗̯̜̗̥͍͖̞̻͓̝̜͔̖͚͍̻̗̼͜͜ ̶̛̛͕̱̻͕̱̠̂̆͗͗̆̈́̓̊͆̒̐͑̉͊͌͌̐̊̽͂̿̿͑͂̊̑͋̿̂̆̍͐͗̈́͒͒͒̾̌̎͌̑̔̾̋̽͐̒̀̈́͌̕͘͜͠͠­̨̡̨̢̣̘̩̭̟̣̠̥̬̟̳̬̲̝̲̼̻̯̻̞͔̗̺̹̮͇̝̣̜͔̹̠̙͓̬̩͕͚̪̰͎̱̝̝̠͈͕̺̭͓̹̭̫̲̣̹͔̠͜͜ͅ­͚̦̗͙̰͓ͅ ̴̡̪̮̘̟̱̪̗̱̖̩̹̗̘̯̖̘̮͒́̔̍̊̐́̊̍͑̑͊͑̂͑͊͂̆̌̎̈́̏̄̉̏́̂̍̇͛̍͗́͆͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅ ̶̧̧̢̡̢̛͓͚̤̳̹̣͕̙͔̣̟̝̮̟͛̇͂͒̈́̈́̇͐̾̇̈́̑͗̿̒̿̍̏͆͛̔̐̀̀́́̀͆͋̑́̃̀̇͗͘̚͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅ­̧̡̤̦̼̗̣̜͍̭̫̗̩̫̠̱͍̻̼̘̳͕̞̺͇̲͖̣̭̱̬̣̞̳̟̜͙̣͓͓̘̺͇̠̺̱̩̹̟̗͍̥ͅ ̵̛̛͚͕̝͎̯̱̪͚̼̜̠̍̓̂̔͆̈͗̏̉̉̅̈́̀̇̄̔̇̐͆̀́̐̊͗͒̓͂̏̆́̈́̑̀́́̈́̎̊̍͑̓͛͋͒̉̕͘͠͝͝͠­̭̭͇̦̮̟̳̣̳͙̟̮̮̹̩̪͜ ̸̢̢̡̨̢̡̡̬̠̗̟̮̩̗̗͇̮͚̹͈̜̪͙͍͈̘̮̥̻̜͕͓̦̞̥̯̯̠͎͚̮̭̦̩͛̅͂̒͛̾̿͋̎̏̍͗̈́̂͋̓̈̇͘ͅ­̨̱̦͓̗̬̪͕̬̹̤̰͈̙̜ ̵̡̨͕͇͕͎͕̲͔̯̹͍̩̲͍̥̜͓̰͍̼̥̙͔͇̺͉̜͍̫͙̝͖̯̙͆͛̒̀̈́̌́̎̇̍͐̄͝͠”


Her howl  
                        becomes a dissonance
                                         that folds                     all existence.
She is a god without hands,                  screaming              at love           for having           fingers.

I hold him                         tighter.
Let her                    drown herself                      in                    her delusion.

I rise.

But I cannot                  
stand   any               
       longer.                                  

                          
   So                                        

I                       


      
dissolve.



Skin releases into air.
Hair vanishes into horizon-line.
Ribs fracture back into gust.
As I spiral upward.

And she closes her wound, a crashing sound that leaves no echo, just madness.

But it matters not what slander she aims toward the sky.

I am already gone.

I carry.

I return.

And she cannot follow.

And he will remember.


Just…

Just a moment…


Longer.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑔𝑖𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑒.
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑣𝑜𝑤 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡, 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝.
𝐴 𝑣𝑜𝑤 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒.
𝑁𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.
𝑁𝑜𝑤, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑝.
𝑁𝑜𝑤, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑠.
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑏𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒.

𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑔𝑜.
𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑛𝑜 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.
𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑦, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.
𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛, 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑙𝑒.
𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑑𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛.
𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛,
𝑇𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑔𝑜.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒.
𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦.
𝐴𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑦, 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑇𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ.
𝑇𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛,

𝑂𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑚.



𝐇𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬.
𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐞. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭— 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝.

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞— 𝐨𝐡 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭.

𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐡. 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝.

𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝. 𝐈 𝐰𝐞𝐩𝐭. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝— 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰. 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐞. 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧.
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐲, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮—

𝐈𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞. 𝐍𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐍𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐍𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬. 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬—

𝐀 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧.

𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬. 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝—𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. 𝐈𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦. 𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.



𝑾𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑾𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒚.

𝑾𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆— 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝑯𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔.

𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒌𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒔 𝒖𝒔, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒖𝒈𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔.

𝑾𝒆 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔. 𝑾𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘.

𝑾𝒆 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒆𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒅. 𝑾𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘.

𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕— 𝒘𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒖𝒔.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆.

𝑾𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒖𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒛𝒐𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔— 𝒂 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈.

𝑨𝒔 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆. 𝑨𝒕 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆— 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒏. 𝑾𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅. 𝑺𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒕— 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔.

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉.

𝑵𝒐 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅. 𝑵𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆. 𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.

𝑾𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒅. 𝑾𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎.

𝑵𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑵𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒆. 𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆.

𝑯𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌. 𝑾𝒆 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓.

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉, 𝒘𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒖𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒚, 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕?


𝑰𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝑰𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏—

𝑾𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉,

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆, 𝒘𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆,

𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑.

Lonely, waiting, watching deep,
Praying as the tempests rise,
Losing hope where shadows creep,
Don’t you leave him — heed his cries.

Alcyone, don’t you stray,
Alcyone, trust his vow.
He longs to whisper, bid you stay,
Yet the tide won’t let him now.

He loves you true, but he is gone,
The sea demands its toll.
He cannot hold you when the dawn
Fades beyond waters cold.

You turned away, betrayed his trust,
Abandoned love so pure.
Now his fate is ocean rust,
A dream that won’t endure.

"Let me see Alcyone,"
He prayed beneath the moon.
Yet the sea knew you’d turn away,
And now the waves consume.

He wished to say he loved you still,
Even through the salty spray.
Why could you not just wait until,
He found a way to stay?

He bent upon his weary knee,
A ring within his grasp.
Yet you left him lost at sea,
A vow drowned in the past.

All the sailors found embrace,
Returned to waiting arms.
But he, forsaken, cast away,
Claimed by whispers where specters mark.

"Let me see Alcyone,"
He whispered every night.
He prayed, but you did not believe,
And so, to ghosts, he paid the price.

He loved with faith, his heart was whole,
Yet was your love the same?
Did longing ache for him alone,
Or did you covet but his name?

Your sorrow is the hollow storm,
That stole his final breath.
You cry now, but guilt is born,
You let him drift to death.

Why did you leave, Alcyone?
He never chose the sea.
He parted to build a life for you,
Yet you let him cease to be.

Look upon the wreckage now,
The love you cast aside.
He did this for you, yet fate allowed
His ruin in the tide.

Listen, Alcyone, do not pretend,
You cannot play the part.
We all know it was you, in the end,
The one who stopped his heart.