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.


~~~


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.

To all my beloveds,


Why are you in such a rush?
Where do you think you have to go?
Why do you live as though in a race?

Don’t rush.
You won’t win.
There is no winning.
There is nothing after that end.

Where do you even have to go?
I’m the one who has to go…

And I will go,

Slow.


Before I meet that end,
Please,

Take my hand.

Waltz with me into that windy night,
Not with haste,
But with the remains,
Of this grotesque grace.  

Let the wind howl.
Let it push.
Let it beg us to hurry on our way.

Let it do as it may,
But I will not rush to that end,
Under anyone’s command.

Just,

Go slow.


I will,

Go slow.



Drag your feet through the dusk.
Let the moonlight kiss the path,
Though it can never again light the way.

There is no destination.
Only this journey.
Only this ache.
Only this love.

I will,

Go slow.


Slow enough,

To cry.

For these tears are worthy of my time.
For they are true to my heart.

I will,

Go slow.

As I cry this truth,
I won’t rush to lie to you.
I won’t sprint toward bliss,
For there is none at the end.

I will waltz slowly through this pain.
Because I want to feel this love.
Because I crave every burden,
Of this human heart.



Go slow,
As you read the story.
Go slow,
As you listen to the song.
Go slow,
As you live this life.

Don’t race through beauty,
Just to meet nothing.
Don’t race through pain,
Just to meet that eternity.

That,

Distant

Icky

Eternity.


Go slow,

With companions, or alone.

Go slow,

Until the world lets go.


Let it hurt.
Let me cry.
Slowly, I love.
Slowly, I cling.
Slowly, I’m dragged away.

Slowly, I fade…

Into,


Into,


That,


Into,


Oblivion…

Go…

Slow.



Slower.

Slower still.

Almost,

Imperceptibly.

As,


You,


Approach,


That,


That,


That,



Distant

Icky


Eternity


Go,



Go,



Go,



Slow.



And if I must,

If I must say goodbye,

If this is the end of our time,


Then let me,

Let me smile,

As I go,


As I go slowly,


Dreaming,

That I am hand in hand,

With such kind company.


Waltzing slowly,

Until I,

Must let go,


Until you,


Until you must,

Move on,


Until I smile,

One last time,



As you must carry on,



Until I,

Until I succumb,

To that,


To,


That,

That,




That,




Distant







Icky











Eternity.





Sincerely,
Your companion
From genesis, through oblivion

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮.

𝙄 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩. 𝙐𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙄 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙮𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡. 𝙂𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙎𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙖𝙠𝙚.


𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚.  


𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨, 𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙡. 𝙈𝙮 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝… 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡, 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙥𝙨𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙚. 𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙗𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚.
𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙚.
𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙗𝙮 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙮, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨.

𝘼𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙡 𝙤𝙣 𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙. 𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩. 𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙. 𝙎𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡, 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚’𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡.





𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.

𝘛𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘛𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯.

𝘖𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.


𝘚𝘰 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵.

𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘺𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺,

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯.


𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦.

𝘐 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘐, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 power of 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦.

𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦’𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.


𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦.


𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴.

𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥.

𝘈𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘫𝘰𝘺.

𝘈𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘵.


𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦.

𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥.

𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴.

𝘐 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦.

𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘢, 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦,


𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴.



𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥𝘺.
𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘯.



𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦.
𝘐𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵.


𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮. 𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘤. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐’𝘮 𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥.





𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐀𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭—𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭? 𝐖𝐡𝐲?

𝐇𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥— 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲.

𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠—

𝐍𝐨. 𝐍𝐨, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲. 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡—

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝.

𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧.

𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬.

𝐇𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬.


𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄!


𝐘𝐎𝐔— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐄? 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐔𝐒𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍! 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃!? 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!?

𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒. 𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄— 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒—

𝐍𝐨. 𝐈—

𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥—

𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝.

𝐘𝐞𝐬. 𝐘𝐞𝐬. 𝐘𝐄𝐒.



𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.
𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬— 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐞.
𝐈 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲.
𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐆𝐨 𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞—

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.
𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞.
𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲—
𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞.





𝙄 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙚.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙝𝙪𝙢 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙄 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙪𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙬. 𝙃𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩. 𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙪𝙣 𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠. 𝘼𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚. 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙛𝙚𝙬 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙚, 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙞𝙣.

𝙊𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙖𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙎𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜.
𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜.  𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩… 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩.
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙨. 𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩. 𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚?

𝙄 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙜𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙯𝙤𝙣. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚.

𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙖 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙨.

𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙙. 𝙃𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙞𝙩.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙚𝙖 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.


𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙗𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙪𝙩𝙚 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢, 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙗𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙡𝙡. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙝𝙪𝙢 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨, 𝙄 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙. 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚, 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚, 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙗𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙥—𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙, 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢, 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝘼𝙩 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩…

𝙄 𝙘𝙧𝙮.



𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧.
“𝘼𝙡𝙘𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚. 𝘾𝙚𝙮𝙭. 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙖 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧.

“𝙉𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙉𝙤 𝙢𝙮𝙩𝙝 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙛𝙨.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥.”

𝙄 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙜. 𝙄 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙙.
𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙗𝙩 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧.

“𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙.
𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙢 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙤 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧.
“𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥.”

“Come on, just up the hill—here. Sit. Sit down.”
“Can someone bring her water?”
“Water!?”
“Enough of that—”
“Who wants to think of water after a mass drowning?”
“Someone who’s still alive.”
“So shut up and help.”
“She’s still breathing.”
“No she’s not.”
“She is.”
“I need to sit—”
“We all need to sit.”

“Does anyone know what happened?”
“Do you have eyes?”
“It’s flooded.”
“How far?”
“How deep?”
“Does it matter?”
“Just look!”
“It’s all gone—”
“Gone how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go ask the ocean why it decided to get up and sit on us if you’re so nosy.”  
“Yeah, maybe it’ll tell you if you ask it nicely.”

“We need to send rafts—”
“There might be survivors—”
“You don’t understand—”
“We left to trade—”
“We just got back!”
“Our families—”
“Do you see them now?”
“No.”
“That’s why we need to search.”
“You can’t.”
“You must.”
“You must not.” “
No—you don’t get it.”
“They’re gone. All of them.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Then go. Go look.”
“Do you see any signs of life out there?”
“Do you see anything but water?”

“Have you seen the birds?”
“There—those two.”
“They were circling—”
“They flew into the flood!”
“They’re gazing at nothing—”
“No, at something—”
“They’re in a standoff with Alcyone!”
“They’re scouts—”
“No—sentries—”
“Her spies—”
“They’re reporting back to the wind.”
“To the dead.”
“To the sea.”
“They’re passing judgment—”
“What are they even looking at?”
“Something beyond the flood.”
“They can see the spirit—”
“The one that did this.”
“They whisper to the wind.”
“But never to us.”
“They’re not just birds.”
“They’re his.”
“Whose?”
“Her lover.”
“The poet.”  
“He’s dead.”
“So are we.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Don’t say that!”

“You think Alcyone sent them?”
“I thought they belonged to the poet?”
“She must have.”
“To help?”
“To watch?”
“To punish?”
“To redeem herself.”
“She has no redemption.”
“She tried—”
“She failed—”
“She mourned—”
“She cursed—”
“She cursed fate itself—”
“And fate cursed us back.”

“Don’t talk like that.”
“My kids are right here.”
“Maybe don’t bring your kids to the edge of an apocalypse.”
“I didn’t bring them—”
“We fled—”
“Then hush—”
“You’re scaring her.”
“She’s scared.”
“So am I.”
“We all are.”
“Not all.”
“Some are angry.”
“Some are stupid.”
“Some think they can fix it.”
“Some think stories help.”
“Some think stories are lies.”
“Some think the birds are gods.”
“I think we’re all wasting our time bickering.”

“Let’s calm down.”
“Use logic.”
“This is not logic.”
“This is screaming.”
“We’ll bring you back—”
“They’ll send rescue teams—”
“They’ll figure it out!”
“No they won’t.”
“They will.”
“They never do.”
“Someone will come.”
“Someone has to.”
“We’re still here—”
“We shouldn’t be.”
“Then why are we?”

“I saw the wave reach out—grab my sister.”
“I looked into the water. There was a face—”
“A man walked into the flood. Smiling. Like it was home—”
“The flood ate my children. Like a beast. Like it laughed at me.”
“I didn’t see anything. I ran.”
“Then don’t speak.”
“Why not?”
“You weren’t a witness.”
“I’m a survivor.”
“If you didn’t suffer, you don’t count.”
“That’s not fair—”
“He didn’t see what we saw.”
“He didn’t feel it claw through his soul.”
“No one felt it the same.”
“All of it was wrong.”

“That’s enough!”
“You people have all suffered.”
“Stop shouting!”
“You need to stand together—”
“Let us help—”
“You all need to stop—”

“We need answers.”
“We need silence.”
“We need names.”
“We need food.”
“We need to go back.”
“We need to leave.”
“We need to pray—”
“We need to forget—”
“We need to scream.”
“We need the sea to speak.”

“Was this prophecy?”
“Was it mercy?”
“Was it the wind?”
“The wind screamed—”
“The wind mourned.”
“The wind was her lover—”
“The wind betrayed her.”
“The wind tried to save her.”
“No—the wind tried to save us.”
“Then why did it fail?”
“Because no one was worth saving.”
“Because someone lied.”
“It wasn’t the wind.”
“It was her tears.”
“No—it was his tears.”
“It was the fates mourning her mistake.”
“The moon wept for its dead poet.”
“No one left to sing for the sky.”
“We are the sky!”
“And no one sings for us.”

“Stop.”
“They’re crazy.”
“Maybe they did this.”
“Why would they?”
“How could they?”
“They’re not crazy.”
“They’re grieving.”
“So are we.”
“But we didn’t see it happen.”
“Near-death rewrites the mind.”
“It rewrites the world.”



“HEY—HEY EVERYONE—SHUT UP AND LOOK!”



…



“It’s… receding.”
“No.”
“Look.”
“Is it real?”
“Real.”
“It’s pulling back.”
“It’s—”
“Why?”
“How?”
“What’s happening?”
“Is this a second wave?”
“No… it’s quiet.”
“Like breath drawn in.”
“Like it’s… listening.”

“Maybe we did something right.”
“No. No one did anything right.”
“Then why aren’t we dead?”
“Maybe the birds.”
“Maybe the wind.”
“Maybe her.”
“Maybe… not her.”
“The poet has come to save us from the same fate!”
“Maybe…”
“No—I think…”
“What if…”

𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙪𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙪𝙢 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙜, 𝙚𝙭𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙡𝙮. 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣. 𝘼 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙬𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙. 𝘼 𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙪𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙬.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙖𝙨𝙩, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙢. 𝘾𝙚𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙜𝙚, 𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙡 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙩. 𝘼𝙡𝙘𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙞𝙧𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙪𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙙, 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙥𝙨, 𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩.

𝙉𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩… 𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙛 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝.





𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑒. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠—𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙, ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓-𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑑, 𝑜𝑝𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦.

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛.
𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘.
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑡, 𝑡𝑜𝑜.


𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒.
“𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟— 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝑟𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙.”

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡. 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑚, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒.
“𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔’𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔.”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑔𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑢𝑠.

“𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒—”

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.
𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 The 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑’𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟.
“𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔?”

𝐹𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡,
“𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑘! 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟—𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑢𝑠!”

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟, 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒-𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.
“𝐼𝑠 𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟?”

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑜𝑛. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑠.
“𝐷𝑎𝑚𝑛 𝑖𝑡.”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡.


𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑒𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑢𝑝.

𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑣𝑒.

𝐴 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙.

𝐴 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑠, 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑.


𝐴 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙,
𝑀𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟.




𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦.

𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦.

𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.


𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯.


“𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘊𝘦𝘺𝘹. 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.

“𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘌𝘷𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘕𝘰𝘸.”

𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯.

𝘊𝘦𝘺𝘹 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘐 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘖𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘯.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯. 𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.
𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳.”

𝘖𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴— 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳.”

“𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯.”

“𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩?”

“𝘕𝘰.”

𝘐 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦.

“𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘨𝘰.”

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴.

𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦. 𝘚𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦.

𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.





𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩.
𝙎𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙤𝙬.
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚… 𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧.
𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩.

𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙮𝙚𝙩. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙮. 𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙙𝙤 𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣, 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧.

𝘽𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙢.


𝙄 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮.
𝙄 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙞𝙧𝙙𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙙𝙚. 𝙄 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧.


𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡… 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚. 𝙎𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙢. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙨. 𝙎𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙗 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨. 𝙇𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝.


𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬.





𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞.
“𝐆𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬.”

“𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫.”
𝐂𝐞𝐲𝐱 𝐧𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲.

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭.

𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐞.





“Erika, look at that bird!”

It shoots toward the square— an arrow cut from fire, feathers bright against the greyed-out sky.

“What kind of bird is that? Is it hunting?”

“It's a tern. I don’t know what it's doing here.
Just grab the laundry.
The forecast said sun, but I don’t trust that sky.”

A voice breaks the air.
The bird screeches— piercing rooftops, snapping flags from lines.
It strikes a banner.
Crashes through a fruit stand— apples spill across the stone.
And the people can't help but gossip.

“That bird’s acting strange.”
“Even the birds are mad now. Like the wind, remember?”
“It’s her again! Alcyone’s curse!”
“She’s back! The sky is mad again—it's Alcyone!”
“It’s her, isn’t it? This time it’s birds instead of wind?”
“She’s possessed them!”
“Look how the sky’s gone grey! She’s calling the storm again!”


“Oh, enough with the ghost stories! Worry less about the dead and more about the living! Shops closed, kids inside. It’s just a weather shift, nothing more.”

Yeah. Just the weather.
I pick up the laundry basket and head for the door with Erika.





𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧?
𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐝.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝?





𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑠. 𝐵𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑠. 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛.
𝐼 𝑡𝑎𝑝 𝑜𝑛 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠. 𝑃𝑒𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐵𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑟’𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒—𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡.

“𝐼’𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦,” 𝐼 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦. “𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑢𝑛. 𝐹𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔.”

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑠.

“𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑦 𝑇𝑟𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑎, 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘—𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑙! 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡! 𝐻𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑛 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢!”

𝑁𝑜. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

“𝐶𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑦, 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛! 𝐴 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑖𝑛! 𝐿𝑒𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑡𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓.”

𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑘𝑖𝑑𝑠 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚.

𝐼 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟. 𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑖𝑡.

“𝐵𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑.”

𝑂𝑢𝑡𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑢𝑝. 𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑒.

“𝐾𝑖𝑑𝑠. 𝑊𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒. 𝑁𝑜𝑤.”

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑡𝑠.

“𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!” 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑠 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑒.

𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘.


𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤.
𝑅𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐻𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙— 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑠, 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.
𝐴 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑒𝑎, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑙𝑠— 𝑖𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠.

𝐼 𝑓𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟. 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤. 𝑇𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠. 𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑒𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠.
𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.





“It’s Alcyone’s curse!”
“No—it’s because we sold her house!”
“She’s here to drown us like she drowned that poet!”
“She warned us! We didn’t listen!”
“Run! RUN! THE FLOOD!”

The crowd breaks.

Too many legs. Too few exits.

Horses rear. Carts overturn.
Mothers lose grip. Fathers lose reason.
A man drops his wife’s hand.
She falls, swallowed by feet. No one stops.

A girl cries out—“My rabbit!”
But the muffled crunch under my heel answers for her.
She stumbles.
Another child turns to follow—
“Lila, no!”

They trip. They fall.
And ten more go down with them.
Including me.
And Cindy.
And mother and the baby.

Mother screams—“Kids, get up!”
But people step over.
Step through.
They’re just trying to live.
There’s no room for decency now.

A thousand footsteps on top of me.
“Stop, stop STOP!”
But they don’t stop.  
I can’t see, they keep stepping on me.
All I can see are the bodies on the ground.
Oh gods, that girl,  
And Cindy,
And the baby,
And
“MOTHER! MO-“





𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙣.

𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮.

𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙮. 𝙊𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙘𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜… 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙯𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮’𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙. 𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙨, 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙢𝙨.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙉𝙤 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢—𝙛𝙖𝙨𝙩, 𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨, 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚— 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙬𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙚.

𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙩𝙝.

𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨.





𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘴.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩— 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳.

𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘺.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦.

𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐— 𝘐’𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵.

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦— 𝘐 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳.

𝘉𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.

𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵… 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳.





𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙮… 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙙.

𝙁𝙚𝙡𝙩.

𝙄𝙩 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙬𝙚’𝙫𝙚 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙— 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙚.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙙𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙩— 𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙪𝙣. 𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧. 𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙮. 𝙈𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙. 𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙥𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙬𝙚𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚’𝙨 𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚… 𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝.

“𝙉𝙤. 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙—𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚!”

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙁𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙥𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨.

𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙣.

𝘽𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙚. 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝘽𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮.





“Darling, this way.”

“What do you mean, this way!? The bridge—”

“The water’s gone.
All of it. Look—behind us, at that inlet on the other side. "
I cup my ear. A low, ******* groan ripples through the air.
"It’s pulling everything in. You don't want that to be us, do you?”

“But the river—”

“We can cross it. Just—follow me.”

Others scramble after us, sliding down banks slick with disbelief.
Some already tried.
One man lost his shoe, turned to grab it— and disappeared to the waist when I looked back.
The mud clutched him like it had been waiting.
He reached for another. They went down together.

“MOVE! MOVE NOW!” someone screams.

Still, the bodies press forward.

Roots snap under foot. Rocks cut like teeth. The mud is thick as grief. Cold as guilt.

A woman ahead lifts her child.

“Don’t let go. Please—”

The earth made a wet kiss. She dropped, still gripping the girl’s ankle.
The girl screamed, then vanished upward—snatched by a stranger who passed her forward to another.
There was no time to grieve. Only cross.

Then—an order.
“Lay down the dead!”

A man—barefoot, bleeding—shoves two ahead of him.

“What?!”

“TRUST ME! We’ll make a path.”

He drops a dead body into the mud, and steps in, stuck next to it. Another follows. Three. Four. Five.
A human bridge.
Someone steps on a shoulder. Then a spine.
The first man shudders, then stops.

“Keep going,” he mutters, voice half-swallowed.
Another slips. A child’s foot crushes a face.
The third man says nothing as a boy scrambles over him.
He simply exhales. And waits for silence to fold him down.
A woman, wounded, slides beside them. She takes her place.
Grit in her teeth. Eyes steady.

And then—
The bridge holds.
Bodies became elevation.
People cross. Children passed like prayer.

“Darling, come on,” I push Erika forward.

“No—NO. I can’t—Not over them—!”

“You have to. Don’t think. Just—move.”

She closes her eyes.
She steps.
Beside me, another bridge forms.
Another line of men, passing infants hand to hand.
Their limbs sinking under the weight.

The flood grows behind us.
I take my place in the line of men passing along children.
As the path vanishes, one breath at a time.





𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙚— 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙞𝙙-𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙄’𝙢 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮, 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩.
𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙡𝙚𝙩— 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙜𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙩𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝘽𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮. 𝙁𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙁𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧— 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝.

𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝.
𝙈𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙞𝙧.

“𝙀𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝,” 𝙄 𝙨𝙖𝙮.

“𝙒𝙚’𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢,” 𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙨𝙥𝙨.

“𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙚’𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙩𝙤𝙤. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙣𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩.”

𝙃𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙥.

“𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙬.” 𝙄 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧.
“𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢. 𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙩𝙚𝙧.”

“𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩—?”

“𝙄𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙢𝙚. 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚. 𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙪𝙨. 𝙍𝙚𝙨𝙩.”

𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙𝙨. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣. 𝙄𝙣𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙.
𝙄 𝙜𝙖𝙨𝙥—𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡-𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮. 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙪𝙡𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜.
𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚, 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙚, “𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚…?”

“𝙔𝙚𝙨,” 𝙄 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧. “𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙡𝙚𝙩’𝙨 𝙜𝙤.”

𝙉𝙤𝙬, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙖 𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚.

𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝— 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙡𝙚𝙣.





₮ⱧɆɎ ₴₵ⱤɆ₳₥.

₳₦Đ ł ₴₥łⱠɆ.

ł₮ ₥₳₭Ɇ₴ ₥Ɇ ₴Ø Ⱨ₳₱₱Ɏ.

₳₮ Ⱡ₳₴₮, ₮ⱧɆ Ⱨ₳₱₱ł₦Ɇ₴₴ ł ĐɆ₴ɆⱤVɆ.


₮ⱧɆ ₩ØⱤⱠĐ ₴ɄⱤⱤɆ₦ĐɆⱤ₴ ฿Ɇ₦Ɇ₳₮Ⱨ ₥Ɇ, ₳ ₮ⱧⱤØ₦Ɇ ฿ØⱤ₦ Ø₣ ₵ØⱠⱠ₳₱₴Ɇ, ₳₦Đ ₴₮łⱠⱠ ₮ⱧɆɎ ₴₵ⱤɆ₳₥. ł ₵₳₦₮ ĐɆ₵łĐɆ ₩Ⱨ₳₮ ł ⱠØVɆ ₥ØⱤɆ,

₮ⱧɆ ₩łĐɆ₦ł₦₲ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ɆɎɆ₴, ØⱤ ₮ⱧɆ ₴łⱠɆ₦₵Ɇ ₮Ⱨ₳₮
₣ØⱠⱠØ₩₴ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ₮ⱧɆ ₮ⱧⱤØ₳₮ ₲łVɆ₴ ØɄ₮.


₮ⱧɆłⱤ ₴Ʉ₣₣ɆⱤł₦₲ ł₴ ₥Ɏ ₵ØⱤØ₦₳₮łØ₦.

ⱠɆ₮ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₴₵ⱤɆ₳₥ Ⱨł₴ ₦₳₥Ɇ. ⱠɆ₮ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₱Ɽ₳Ɏ ₣ØⱤ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ.
ł₮₴ ₣₳₮Ɇ ₩ⱧØ ⱧØⱠĐ₴ ₮ⱧɆłⱤ ⱧɆ₳Đ₴ Ʉ₦ĐɆⱤ.
฿Ɇ₲₲ł₦₲ Ø₦ⱠɎ ₥₳₭Ɇ₴ ł₮ ₩ØⱤ₴Ɇ. ₮ⱧɆłⱤ ĐɆVØ₮łØ₦ ₮Ø ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₮ⱧłɆ₣ ĐØɆ₴ ₦Ø₮Ⱨł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₮ ₴₩ɆɆ₮Ɇ₦ ₥Ɏ ⱤɆ₳₵₮łØ₦.


ł ₥ØVɆ ₣ØⱤ₩₳ⱤĐ ₩ł₮ⱧØɄ₮ Ɇ₣₣ØⱤ₮. ₮ⱧɆ ₩ØⱤⱠĐ ฿Ø₩₴ ₳₦Đ ł ₲ⱠłĐɆ, ⱤłĐł₦₲ ₮ⱧɆ ₵ⱤɆ₴₮ Ⱡł₭Ɇ ₳ ₱ⱤØ₥ł₴Ɇ ₣ł₦₳ⱠⱠɎ ₭Ɇ₱₮.

ØⱧ, ₥Ɏ ₱ØØⱤ Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ ₥ł₴₲ɄłĐɆĐ ₩ł₦Đ. ɎØɄ ₲₳VɆ Ⱨł₥ ɎØɄⱤ Ɇ₥฿Ɽ₳₵Ɇ Ø₦ ₮ⱧɆ ฿ⱤłĐ₲Ɇ, ₴Ø ł ₮ØØ₭ ₮ⱧɆ ฿ⱤłĐ₲Ɇ. ɎØɄ ₲₳VɆ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₩ł₦₲₴, ₴Ø ł ฿ⱤØ₭Ɇ ɎØɄⱤ ₴₭Ɏ. ɎØɄ Vł₴ł₮ɆĐ ₮ⱧɆ ₵ł₮Ɏ ł₦₴₮Ɇ₳Đ Ø₣ ₥Ɇ, ₴Ø ł₥ ₮₳₭ł₦₲ ₮ⱧɆ ₵ł₮Ɏ ₮ØØ.

ɎØɄ ₱₳Ɏ ₳₮₮Ɇ₦₮łØ₦ ₮Ø ɆVɆⱤɎ₮Ⱨł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₮ ₥Ɇ. ɎØɄ ⱠØVɆ ɆVɆⱤɎ₮Ⱨł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₮ ₥Ɇ. ɎØɄ ₳ⱤɆ ₣₳ł₮Ⱨ₣ɄⱠ ₮Ø ɆVɆⱤɎ₮Ⱨł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₮ ₥Ɇ. ₴Ø ł ₩łⱠⱠ ₮₳₭Ɇ ɆVɆⱤɎ₮Ⱨł₦₲. Ʉ₦₮łⱠ ₳ⱠⱠ ₮Ⱨ₳₮₴ ⱠɆ₣₮ ₮Ø ⱠØØ₭ ₳₮— ₮Ø Ɇ₥฿Ɽ₳₵Ɇ— ₮Ø ⱠØVɆ— ł₴ ₥Ɇ. ₮ⱧɆⱤɆ ₩łⱠⱠ ฿Ɇ ₦Ø₮Ⱨł₦₲ ⱠɆ₣₮ ₮Ø ₴₮Ɇ₳Ⱡ ɎØɄ ₳₩₳Ɏ.

ɎØɄ ₩łⱠⱠ ฿Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ.
฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ ł₮ ₩łⱠⱠ ₳ⱠⱠ ฿Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ.


Ø₦Ɇ ฿Ɏ Ø₦Ɇ.

ł ₮₳₭Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ₥.

ØⱧ, ⱧØ₩ ₣₳Ɽ ₴Ø ₥₳₦Ɏ Ⱨ₳VɆ ₥₳ĐɆ ł₮, ł₦ ₳ ₣Ʉ₮łⱠɆ ₳₮₮Ɇ₥₱₮ ₮Ø ɆV₳ĐɆ ₱₳Ɏ₥Ɇ₦₮.

₳ ₲łⱤⱠ ⱧłĐɆ₴ ฿Ɇ₦Ɇ₳₮Ⱨ ⱧɆⱤ ₥Ø₮ⱧɆⱤ₴ ₴Ⱨ₳₩Ⱡ.

₥ł₦Ɇ.

₳ ฿ØɎ ₮Ɽł₱₴ ØVɆⱤ ₳ ⱤɄ₦₲ Ø₣ ⱤØ₱Ɇ.

₥ł₦Ɇ.

₳ ĐØ₲ ⱧØ₩Ⱡ₴ Ø₦₵Ɇ, Ɇ₳Ɽ₴ ₣Ⱡ₳₮, ₣Ø₳₥ ł₦ ł₮₴ ₮ⱧⱤØ₳₮.

₥ł₦Ɇ.

₮ⱧɆ ₣ⱠØØĐ ł₴ ₥Ɏ ₦₳₥Ɇ— ⱠØ₦₲, ⱠØ₩, Ɇ₮ɆⱤ₦₳Ⱡ.


₮ⱧɆ₦—

ł ₴ɆɆ ł₮. ₥Ɏ Ɇ₴₵₳₱ɆĐ ₱Ɽł₴Ø₦ɆⱤ, ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₮ⱧłɆVł₦₲ ₮Ⱨł₦₲
₵₳ⱠⱠɆĐ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ.
₲ⱠØ₩ł₦₲ ₣₳ł₦₮ⱠɎ. ₴₮łⱠⱠ ⱤɄ₦₦ł₦₲.

฿Ʉ₮—

₮Ⱨ₳₮ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ ĐØɆ₴ ₦Ø₮ ₲ⱠØ₩.

₳₦Đ ɎɆ₮—

ł₮ ĐØɆ₴.

₮Ⱨ₳₮₴ ₦Ø₮ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ.

₮Ⱨ₳₮₴ Ⱨł₥.
₥Ɏ ₥ł₴₲ɄłĐɆĐ ⱠØVɆⱤ.

ɎØɄ ₮Ʉ₵₭ɆĐ ɎØɄⱤ₴ɆⱠ₣ ł₦₴łĐɆ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ⱧɄ₴₭ ł₦₴₮Ɇ₳Đ Ø₣ ₥Ɇ?
ⱠɆ₮ ₥Ɇ ₲ɄɆ₴₴. ɎØɄ ₮ⱧØɄ₲Ⱨ₮ ⱧɆ ₵ØɄⱠĐ ₴ⱧłɆⱠĐ ɎØɄ. ɎØɄ ₮ⱧØɄ₲Ⱨ₮ ⱧłĐł₦₲ ₩ØɄⱠĐ ⱧɄⱤ₮ ₥Ɇ ⱠɆ₴₴.

ⱧØ₩ ₴₩ɆɆ₮.

ⱧØ₩ ₴₮Ʉ₱łĐ.

łⱠⱠ ₱ɆɆⱠ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₴ⱧɆⱠⱠ Ø₱Ɇ₦ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₥Ɏ ₣ł₦₲ɆⱤ₴. ₮Ɇ₳Ɽ Ⱨł₥ ₱łɆ₵Ɇ ฿Ɏ ₱łɆ₵Ɇ Ʉ₦₮łⱠ ɎØɄ ₮Ʉ₥฿ⱠɆ ØɄ₮— ₲₳₴₱ł₦₲, ₲Ɽ₳₮Ɇ₣ɄⱠ,

₥ł₦Ɇ.





𝑊𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒.
𝐴𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑠, 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑠, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒, 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑡-𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑖𝑟.
𝐵𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑢𝑠, 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑠.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑛, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑, 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔.

𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑘, 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑤 𝑎𝑡 𝐹𝑎𝑡𝑒’𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠, 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠— 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑘𝑦 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑡.
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡.

𝑊𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑐ℎ 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑. 𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠.
𝑃𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑑𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑. 𝐹𝑒𝑤 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑖𝑡.
𝑂𝑛 𝑎 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑐ℎ’𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛, 𝑤𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜.
𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟.

𝐵𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑠, 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑏𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒.
𝐴 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑? 𝐴 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑒𝑡?
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟.

𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑎𝑡 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑐ℎ.
“𝑊𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠,” 𝐼 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟.
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑦, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒.
“𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑡.” 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠 back.

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑝𝑠𝑒𝑠.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ.

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠… 𝐼𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑜? 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒? 𝐼𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒?

“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠,” 𝐼 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟.
“𝐻𝑒’𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚” 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠.
“𝐴𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡… 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚...”





𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝.

𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙘 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨.

𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙞𝙡𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙄 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙝𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙙𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩. 𝙄 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢. 𝘼 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚, 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙡𝙡. 𝙄 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙤𝙤.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙄… 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙧. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙣𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩. 𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙮 𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙨. 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙨 𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙢𝙚. “𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙,” 𝙄 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙, “𝙄’𝙢 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.”

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙨. “𝘿𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙮. 𝙂𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.”

𝙄 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙩. 𝙄𝙩 𝙨𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙨. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙮𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙨. 𝙁𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚. 𝙄 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙆𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜. “𝙄 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙—𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.”

𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨,


𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙪𝙥 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚.





ØⱧ, ₦Ø ɎØɄ ĐØ₦₮.

ɎØɄ ĐØ₦₮ ₲Ɇ₮ ₮Ø ₵₳ⱤⱤɎ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₩ⱧɆⱤɆ ł ₵₳₦₮ ₣ɆɆĐ.
ɎØɄ ĐØ₦₮ ₲Ɇ₮ ₮Ø ⱧØ₳ⱤĐ ₩Ⱨ₳₮ ₩₳₴ ₥Ɇ₳₦₮ ₣ØⱤ ₥Ɇ.
ł ₩₳Ɽ₦ɆĐ ɎØɄ, ₮ⱧłɆ₣.
ɎØɄⱤ ĐɆ฿₮ ł₴ ₦ɆӾ₮.


₱₳Ɏ Ʉ₱.





𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚—𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧. 𝙈𝙮 𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙨—𝙡𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚. 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢.

𝙈𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙮 𝙢𝙚.
𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩. 𝙎𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚. 𝘼𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙇𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬... 𝙄’𝙢 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚—
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙣. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙬𝙞𝙛𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙮. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙨. 𝙄 𝙩𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠.


𝙊𝙣𝙚.


𝘽𝙮.


𝙊𝙣𝙚.





𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯.

𝘔𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.

𝘕𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴.

𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘳. “𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺,” 𝘐 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.”

𝘔𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭.

𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵.


𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘨𝘰.





₮ⱧɆⱤɆ ɎØɄ ₳ⱤɆ.

₮ⱧɆⱤɆ ɎØɄ ₳ⱤɆ, ₥Ɏ Đ₳ⱤⱠł₦₲ ₵₳₮₳₴₮ⱤØ₱ⱧɆ.

₳ⱠⱠ ĐⱤɆ₴₴ɆĐ ł₦ ⱤɄł₦. ₴₮łⱠⱠ ₮ⱤɎł₦₲ ₮Ø ₵Ɽ₳₩Ⱡ ₣ⱤØ₥ ₥Ɏ ₴Ⱨ₳ĐØ₩.

ĐØ₦₮ ɎØɄ ₴ɆɆ?

ɎØɄVɆ ₳Ⱡ₩₳Ɏ₴ ฿ɆɆ₦ ₥ł₦Ɇ.

₣ⱤØ₥ ₮ⱧɆ ฿ⱤɆ₳₮Ⱨ ₮ⱧɆɎ ₴₮ØⱠɆ ɎØɄ ł₦₮Ø, ₮Ø ₮ⱧɆ ฿ØĐɎ ɎØɄ ₮ⱧØɄ₲Ⱨ₮ ₵ØɄⱠĐ ⱧØⱠĐ ɎØɄ ฿Ɇ₮₮ɆⱤ.
ɎØɄ ₵₳ⱠⱠɆĐ Ⱨł₥ ⱧØ₥Ɇ. ɎØɄ ⱠɆ₮ Ⱨł₥ ₵Ɽ₳ĐⱠɆ ɎØɄ.
฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ ⱧɆ ĐɆ₵ɆłVɆĐ ɎØɄ. ₥Ɏ ₱ØØⱤ, ₩Ɇ₳₭, VɄⱠ₦ɆⱤ₳฿ⱠɆ Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ ₩ł₦Đ. ฿Ʉ₮ ł₮ ₩₳₴ ₥Ɏ ₦₳₥Ɇ ฿ɆⱧł₦Đ ɆVɆⱤɎ ⱧɆ₳Ɽ₮฿Ɇ₳₮.

ɎØɄ Ɽ₳₦. ɎØɄ ⱧłĐ.
₳₦Đ ₴₮łⱠⱠ—ⱠØØ₭ ₳₮ ɎØɄ.
₵Ø₥ł₦₲ ฿₳₵₭ ₮Ø ₥Ɇ ĐⱤł₱₱ł₦₲ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₣₳łⱠɄⱤɆ, ₴ł₦₲ɆĐ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₴Ø₥ɆØ₦Ɇ ɆⱠ₴Ɇ₴ ₴ØⱤⱤØ₩.


ɎØɄ ฿ɆⱠØ₦₲ ₦Ø₩ⱧɆⱤɆ ₦Ø₩.


₦Ø₩ⱧɆⱤɆ ฿Ʉ₮ ⱧɆⱤɆ.


ɎØɄVɆ ₳Ⱡ₩₳Ɏ₴ ฿ɆɆ₦


₥ł₦Ɇ. ₥ł₦Ɇ. ₥ł₦Ɇ.

I feel a breeze... The Wind... again.

But not the kind that brushes past. Not the kind that leaves no mark.

No… this is breath with intent. With weight. Like something gathering the last of itself to become real.

And I… I stand there, open, watching the sky tremble.
It comes toward me... not like an arrival, but like a decision.

And then—

He falls into me.

Not wings. Not gale. Not silence.

He is body. He is breath. He is The Wind.
And he has chosen form again.


My arms catch him before my mind understands.
He collapses into my chest, and I collapse into awe.

His skin is cold with exhaustion. His ribs flutter like sails torn through. He shakes—not with fear, but with… completion.

“You’re here…” I whisper.  
But the words feel too small for his weight.

He holds me. Not as if I vanished… but as if he had.
And I was the proof he’d made it back.

Then— light. motion. Pain.

As he presses his palm to my sternum.

And I… I burn.

Not fire. Something older. Something true.
It isn’t just memory...

It is…

Return.


It pierces. It blazes. It hurts.
Everything. All of me. At once.





“Would you like to have a body?”

My answer had no sound. But he heard it.
His fingers traced the curve of something I had never had before— shoulders, jaw, hands— and made me into someone who could be seen. Could be touched.

Tangible.

I remember the way he looked at me afterward.
Not surprised. Not proud. Just… glad.

“There,”
Wind had whispered, voice barely breath.
“You are the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen.
Fitting… since the end is the most beautiful of all, just before it becomes nothing, but a memory.
Memories are beautiful, but never as beautiful as the real thing. Never as beautiful… as that final moment.
Before they can never be so beautiful again.”

And I… had looked at the hands he gave me.
At the shape that wasn’t mine, but... felt like it had always waited.

To make the end beautiful… It felt wrong… Too tragic.
But I believed him.
Because... at the very least, he believed it.


I remember… being held. Quietly. Often.

By him.

The Wind who never stayed, yet always returned.
I let him go. Every time.

We watched endings together.
He whispered lullabies into the mouths of storms,
And I gathered what they left behind.

There was no fear between us.
No shame.
Only gravity.

We were gods not of dominion, but of passage.
I was the stillness, he was the change.
And together... we made that journey to the end mean something.
Going slowly.  
Giving the weary a peaceful farewell to the long road they traveled.


Until—

A warning.

Not heard—

Felt.

The sea stiffened. The air lost taste. Something vast and jealous rising from below.

I was waiting for him, Wind, as always. But he didn’t arrive...

She did.

I don’t remember how I fell. Just the cold. The weight.
The pressure of water that didn’t wet the skin— that crushed thought instead.


I fought. I know I did.

But she was prepared.

She spoke in tones I didn’t recognize... as if she had rehearsed this moment for centuries.

“You were never supposed to exist. He made you seen. He made you beautiful. He gave you what he refused me. It’s time for justice. It’s time to return… to nothing.”

That was when the pain began.
She didn’t strike me with waves.
She struck me with malice I had no armor for.

She tried to destroy me.

She tried...

and failed.


She screamed.

Not in fury. But in the pain of unwanted revelation.

“How unfair…” she hissed. “Death can take everything— yet cannot be taken? Not even that body you don’t deserve? He gave you a form that can be seen, can be felt, can breathe— yet cannot drown?”


And when obliteration of my shape failed…

She turned to erasure.


“Feed me those precious memories, then. If I cannot end you, I’ll hollow you. What use has the oblivion for memory anyway? For the guise of love? Your memory is nothing but a debt to me. Let me devour your sins from the inside. If you can’t return to nothing— then at least surrender yourself to the justice of emptiness.”

She reached inside.

Not with hands. With authority. With certainty.
She wanted to shatter me from within.

But the interior…

Was still me.

And she could not destroy Death.

And then...

She paused.


Her grip faltered.

She had reached my memories.

And inside them, entwined,

She found him.


The shimmer of Wind.
Not just shaping my form... binding my being.


“How dare you carry him inside you,” she seethed. “You thief of spirit!”


I felt her hunger. She wanted to tear it out. To consume it. To make his soul hers.

But my spirit rose, though wounded, and wrapped around that gift like armor.

We would not be severed. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

She howled.
And in that fury, she did what cowards do when gods will not die.

She divided me.

Split the internal from the external.

The memories— our laughter, our names, the moment he called me beautiful, the way he looked back when I let him go— she ripped them from me and buried them beneath everything.

And into the hollow that remained within my shape, she poured herself.


“You are death,” she whispered. “Nothing more. You carry out my orders. You fetch and return what belongs to me. Until I am given shape— you are my shape. You belong to me. You are a thing. My thing.”


She sealed the vessel.
And I walked.
I became not Death. But the action of taking.
Her blade. Her puppet. Wandering. Eternal. Obedient.
Unknowing.

And she kept me from him.
Because he would have known.
He felt the silence. He searched.
But she was clever.
And I was...
Hollow.


Until now.


Now... He gave it all back.



My knees buckle. We fall.

He lands atop me, trembling, gasping, radiant even in his fatigue... As if the act of giving had drained all the energy he had left.

And I…

Am still.

Frozen in recollection. Flooded with emotion.
Awake. Alive. At last.

The ground beneath us does not crack.

But I do.


The two birds, Alcyone and Ceyx...
They land beside us.
They do not sing. They simply look… at me.

They witness… who I am becoming.

The Wind whispers,
“He just   needs        a moment.”

He’s right. But he needs this moment too.
What did you endure, old friend? To restore…

The I that was buried is stretching.

Untwisting.

Returning.

I remember who I was before she erased me.
Before Fate sculpted silence into obedience.
Not her weapon. Not her silence. Not even this nickname—Death.

No…

I was— I am—

Oblivion.

And he is—

Transformation.

Transformation, The Wind, my…


I hold him.

Tighter.


He brought me home.
After we had been separated for far too long.

He rests on my chest, breathing slow.
I don’t think he even notices he’s crying.
Neither of us move… except to hold one another closer.
After what could have been years, he lifts his head and looks at me, like someone seeing dawn for the first time.

He smiles. Softly.

“Do you remember me now, old friend— my dear, Oblivion?”

I don’t need to answer.
Because he knows.


Alcyone and Ceyx perch upon the railing as the two of us lie here… still recovering.

From the strain. From the twisted story. From forgetting what we were made of.

Alcyone and Ceyx watch. Still. As if afraid movement might shatter this moment.


But it's not fragile.

It’s real.

We’re not fragile.

We heal.


For now... we are whole. Thread returned to spindle. Name to breath. Memory to soul.

The silence that follows is not empty. It is earned.

It is not a will, stolen.
It is a moment, shared.
























































It has been foretold, by the Repeater, the truth—for once—that actions have consequences.

It has been foretold—by this Fate—the truth, of course— that all debts must be paid—




In full—








  ̶̡̨͍̱̹͙̩̠̗̕͜ ̷̨̜̖͖͇̗̼̟̘͖̘͖̲̒̍͋̓̐͆̀̽̓A͠N͞D̵͡ ̷W͟͡I̸͘T͢H͡ ̸IN̷̴T̶͝E҉̶R̕̕E̵̷S͏͜T ̴̡̧̡̢̛̳̭̜͎̠͈̤̫̹͖̘͈̜̫͖̗̲̳͚̯̯͇̠̼̤͉̰͚̄̒̀̀̀͆͛̓͆͆͐̂̄̅̑̔̌̔̀͒̔̃̀͘͘̚͜͝ͅͅͅ­̮̞͔͙̬ ̶͉̗͖̖̱̝͓̬̤̉͌̏͐̾͂͒̌̅͑́̈́̃̊̔͗̽͗̎̅͊͒̒̽̔̍̎͋͊͋́̃̾̓͋͑̑̒̋̅̊͛̓̍͘͘͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅ­̨̮͈̱

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.

A talk with my sister, and something feels right,
She listens so calmly, she softens my night.
She saw all the bruises that covered my skin,
And says she won’t watch me go through that again.

She tells me I’m worthy of peace
and of rest,
That being myself doesn't make me a jest.
No more pretending, stop shrinking to fit-
It's not worth losing love to please others, is it?

And those who don’t like it? Well, let them all go,
She’ll stand right beside me through my highs and lows.
She says I am loved without mask or disguise,
And I realize I could've just been me this whole time.
I don't have to carry, I can ask for assistance without fear of being mocked or met with resistance.