His name is Kronid. His name is also Rozhkov. He can make your problems disappear. The question is what it costs you.
_ππ / π΄π«π΅π°
Come say hello | Retweets appreciated
ββ
More below
So I turned the sharpness outward. Cut open outside structure so cleanly it stayed convenient. But inside.
That cut runs on and on. The line on my forearm stayed white and hard.
x.com/XorinGate/status/20286β¦
The suburban train came shuddering into Rizhsky station nearly three months ago now, past the wooden bench where someone had carved a keyhole, the one you sat on during a long wait (raw-edged, with no news from the place you'd left). Β¬
Low in the sugar fog of fruit, he kept repeating π§πππππ¦π, squeezing the flesh. How to say that this made you want to taste? No stomach for sweetness. No throat for the name he'd learnt to call ripe.
Still, here it was: someone giving someone language and someone Β¬
memorising hard how to choose them again.
She would have paused at this. Lip bitten, released. How she would have turned the word in her mouth like a stone from a river she never crossed.
The things of her I see in you.
His name is Kronid. His name is also Rozhkov. He can make your problems disappear. The question is what it costs you.
_ππ / π΄π«π΅π°
Come say hello | Retweets appreciated
ββ
More below
What do you see when you look at this card in mid-air combustion?
I see the raw speed of a life being spent. Not an Ace of Spades sitting idle β the one card nobody ever mistakes β but one actively unmade by the purpose behind the flare. Β¬
fire with no eyes, force with no mercy, running through.
Until.
Watch the flames eat through the suit, the same fire taking what it takes.
It doesn't matter what deck you hold when the ash starts to flake, when the eye fixes on nothing, Β¬
when the hand freezes, when the voice dies.
At the point of convergence, every act of magic I remember has two endings: the one where the card neatly disappears, and the one where the maker is holding something that isn't there.