las noches.
ii.
beseech.
iii.
gift.
iv.
once.
v.
theme

aquiilae:

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     Cradling the boy is a B́́̀͘͜Ĺ̡̧̢̧A̢̛͜͠Ç̛K̷̨̢͝ ͝͠V͏̸Ǫ̵̕͞I̛̕̕D̸̷, a dark sky that swallows up the stars, and forbids light from gaining entrance. Cold pierces his skin like a thousand pin pricks, turning it to goose flesh before chilling him down to the bare bone. An ethereal nightmare —that is what this experience is, and nothing more. Should he read into it, he shall find no answer waiting for him, only the c͠l͢a̴ws and fa̧n̡gs and fi̡erý e͝ýes o̕f́ ҉g̶h͞o̵uls.͜ But behold! A white phantom descends from above ( wherever that may be ) but disregards the boy in his entirety. Pain fuels the fires and he bends, ssssNAPS! in two, and offers the pieces to the hungry flames.

                                     “—TELL ME WHERE I AM.

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  INDIFFERENCE — !?
     is this what he tastes upon the metallic sting
     of a tongue encased by great chains and locks
     opening the gates to malicious guarded hell?
     oh ! he would give far more than a lick of look
     which harnesses nothing more than the human
     uncaring he, yet, cannot fathom. uncaring was
     far from half lidded verdant of observance and
     untwisted lips of ink ( which wrote and were
     written upon of scriptures from the mouth of
     his wondrous god ), the embodiment of arctic
     chill within apathy of the greatest demons that’ve
     lurked since human struck human. he was long
     ago; the trumpet bearing dragon-angel of great
     beauty with a snake tail to conceal, and he was
     to put the stone of heartlessness into the cradled
     palm of man.

                        “.  .  .”

vigoare ;  
alt! (MIRELA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! )

a muse i’ve played or want to play ; mirela djuric.

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 SHE’S LAUGHING! HAHAHA !!
     SHE’S LAUGHING AT YOU! the gutter queen of constantinople
     SHRIEKS!! in her laughter; HAHA! DANCE, DANCE, DANCE! as
     though she is more hyena than lion in her swaying ways of
     decadent clinks and clanks, gold and gold and gold and gold.
     the supreme weight of gold in her own, enough gold to make
     guards look her way but say nothing. a rich whore!? her only lover
     is LAUGHTER and MONEY ( I LOVE MONEY, GIVE ME MONEY,
     WHERE’S THE MONEY, DO YOU HAVE THE MONEY, I DON’T
     HAVE ENOUGH MONEY, PLEASE DON’T HURT ME I’LL GIVE
     YOU MONEY, I HAVE MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY
     MONEY MONEY MONEY until it is meaningless on her tongue of
     thieving lies and sweet smirks of imported lip rouge ), be it damned
     if she ever were to kiss the kiss rather than leave smudges along
     her fingers and in the air. her breath is of deteriorating pride, and
     the sure insecurities of wine so excessive and fermented between
     pearly teeth that it creates a spirit unlike any other. and spirits!
     spirits haunt her relentlessly — spirits of fire, whirling spirits of
     sewer rats with slit throats in secrecy and for her own sake, dark
     furred followers of lost men nursed by wolves, spirits of money
     money money money money… oh, see her weep for her money!
     she weeps gold, now, and tears solidify upon her stricken face,
     bruises and all. she is far past the point of fixing what is broken
     with gold; yet she laughs.

vigoare:

                              V I G O A R E;
                                   force, strength, vigor.

                       independent, semi-selective historical oc blog.
                    HOME ; ASK ; ABOUT ; RULES; CREDIT; CREDIT;

   ulquiorra’s name;
      could possibly stem from two different meanings
      & definitions for its fictional uniqueness. the first is
      the spanish phrase ‘el que llora’ ( keeping with the
      spanish motifs of the arrancar ), he who cries. it
      references the tear markings on his face. the latin
      phrase ‘lucifer qui mane oriebaris’ ( the star that
      rose in the morning ) desires some creativity in its
      creating of his name — his last name being cifer,
      leaves the ‘lucifer’ with a simple ‘lu’, which can be
      reversed into ‘ul.’ following the sounds and mismatching
      of the rest of the phrase, this forms ‘ulquiorie cifer’.
      in both cases, regardless of another’s validity or of
      neither, his surname cifer is taken as an illusion to
      lucifer. because making it just ‘lucifer’ was a little
      too obvious.

cardiiovascular:

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       ”It’s not every day that I’m beckoned to someone 
        of a higher stature — so tell me, tell me ;
        you’re not human, I know. Not a weeper, no; 
you’ve got the features of a man, yet the discoloration
        of a ghost.

                                            — what is your name? “

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  the sun is composed
      of the same matter as his skull, weighty in
      all its universal experiences in the aimless
      cosmos, for he is knitted of the same cloth
      as spectres upon the faces of distant planets
      which wailed for their return to guiding hands
      of blank black. it would be a blemish, molten
      and seeping from between dark matter sockets
      if it was not for the mecca of instantaneous
      enlightenment and knowledge that pours alongside
      magma. and from the clasp of a titanium throat
      escapes the withering cries of such planets,
      cracked and plasma ridden, the angel speaks
      graciously ( harrowed hallowed be! )

              “— — ulquiorra.”

I burn, I freeze; I am never warm. I am rigid; I forgot softness because it did not serve me.
—Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente (via deermoon)

  something wicked
     this way is already borne, manifested within the
     threads of delicate universes, stitched with flowers,
     sunlight, and all things capable of destroying what
     niceties might lay for humans to enjoy. his is a world
     of automatic betrayal the birth of masks was a
     testament to the lack of humanity within stretching
     bars of prisons used to encompass the camps of
     evening harmony and death without reason. this
     landmark of bleak white salt flats and unsightly drawn
     teeth is of no action past the gentle heave of a chest
     once caved within itself, pierced and torn but not yet
     passed into the gates of hell.

You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.
—Pablo Neruda (via thymara)

   the tenebrous flit
      of lashes was not an unusual act of nature — whatever
      breeze they might stir via the entanglement to rich navy
      and seas of like colour when churned was to now be
      expected, any ripple of power that did not succumb to
      his attempts at concealment were to go unnoticed as
      they rattled the barrack doors. it is no different in the
      matched float of a leaflet set upon the desk with gentle
      mastery of blackened fingers, the lingering of a spectre
      not a sight to behold, but rather, a noise to harken. ah,
      it is a peaceful wisp of soul that escapes him;

          “— — your signature.”