putting this muse on hold. hmu if you want my other account.
đŞź

Janaina Medeiros

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DEAR READER
hello vonnie
NASA


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trying on a metaphor

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@43am
putting this muse on hold. hmu if you want my other account.

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changing the follow protocol because iâm just not diddly damn active enough to ask for plots. with this change: starters will be prewritten, relationships will be established before hand, and iâll then message you for context and approval.Â
i saw that
donât snippity snap your wicky wack ass cap at me im a fuckin rap star and youre just a wet sock in this jizzlin jolly op DUECESÂ
so no one saw that.
SOMEBODY CALL 911
iâm chiki chiki takin you down to the fizzity uckinâ town ya goofy hoochin ken veroochin coochieÂ

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working on replies. imâs wil come after. oh god what am i doing
[ ' she leaves his head in a box by his door, knocking twice before she disappears in a puff of dark smoke. inside the box, along with the decapitated head, was a plane ticket to paris (dateless), and a european visa-stamped passport that looked too good to be fake. ]
{` to the sound of unexpected company, he approaches hesitantly as he believed that his own whereabouts were a best kept secret to no one but him and his landlord. nonetheless, he opens the door, only to be met with a simple box at his feet. with no one in sight to claim it, he brings it inside. to his curiosity, there was no return address, and yet the aura emitted from the package was oddly.. comforting.Â
picking apart the lid, the sight of his head sitting lifelessly- peacefully within the boxâs confinements was there. then his headâs leveled over his neck, dark threads of ink woven around his stitches as he is once again whole. it takes a moment for him to adjust, but his eyes open, and the smell of rotting flesh fills his lungs. but heâs hesitant. sometimes his head is an obstacle, one he could never over come. sometimes he thinks about dying, or how he shouldâve perished years before in the academy. but all thoughts are forgotten as minho catches another item in his package.Â
it was a plane ticket to paris, and it takes him a few seconds to smile. }
semi hiatus.
nothing, really. [ â she huffs, her headâattached, of courseâswaying from one side to another, hovering one second too long above the otherâs shoulder before she tips yet another way ] i was thinking of visiting a few more cities. daâ [ â a pause for formality, and she clears her throat before she continues to speak ] father told me to stay off of missions for awhile. something about âthe darkness might consume you too soonâ or something. [ â she holds the decapitated head by a hand and turns it, looking observant ] have you ever been to paris?
{` his shoulders turn at a slight angle to indicate that his gaze fell to the seemingly tranquil ker, but makes no further gesture. though the sight of his head in her grasp was more than odd, it didnât phase him, not after those snaps of course. } .. {` he wanted to laugh, a burst of shadow erupting at the neck. the irony of a ker maintaining the capacity of her âdarknessâ was strange. } it might be too late for that. ă ă {` but the question is what surprises him. heâs never left the country, the idea of a city glorified for its luxury sounded like an urban myth. this coming from a former myth; even more irony } no. but it sounds lovely.
[ ' she materializes beside him, one hand nonchalantly holding his decapitated head while her elbow rests upon his shoulder ] 3 more days 'til i return this thing. d'you have any flights booked as of recent?
{` heâll never know how sheâs always able to find him, but his stance doesnât waver. instead heâs directed beyond the point of the rooftop, assumingly watching everything else below him. though he was exposed to the cityscape, he made sure to remain unnoticed; mounds of dark mass fume from the gap where his head once stood }Â
no plans. no flights. {` is what he types on his phone, a sudden burst of shadow puffs from his neck } why?

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chaotic saints.
The juncture of the day sometimes infuses uninvited thoughts, knocking on his mind gates and lingering for a long time. It is dusk and he is thinking about his body; about how he measures every inch of peculiarities and embosses it into question marks. He understands it in two ways: a. metaphorically, he is a riverbed with soft water and gentle streams, his estuary the color of oceanic scene that he imbibes in the cradle of hushed moments â and b. progressively, as a scientific deviation that combines research undone with every accidental experiment, uncovered by the bound of textbook theories.
Maybe this is an entropy. Maybe this is a stagnancy.
He finds everything almost rhetorical, problems inquired when there is absolutely no solution. Discoveries were strokes of luck, if not slivers of curse. Life is a heist performed on evolutionâs shelves; robberies a legal synergy that he learned to do in the art of survival. This is either an apex of genetic lottery, or an abyss ( lately the former more than the latter â last year spoke of it backward ). He is an expert of symbiosis with private bewilderment.
            Take an instance. Dissect into dichotomy.
                  Todayâs topic: bulletproof skin and empiric bones,       pomegranate blood that cascades in the rigidity of constant flows,             and chest wrapped in gravitation towards the kin strapped as minority.
Anomaly dilutes every divergence. Substances only wash his mouth and scorch his throat. Wounds only prove transience and knit syllogisms. Every sinew bruises his psyche with the knowledge that he barely recognizes the mechanism of his own systems, organs a reminder that he is a husk of ellipsis left blank forever.
Then comes this point where he is oversaturated with the crown of cacophonies.
He gets on his feet in attempt to clear the haze. Grabs his hooded jacket, his primer protection. Outside is a painting of metamorphosis, sky suffering from too much purple from the intrusion of evening. The wind is sandpaper with tints of season ending, faded shades replaced with coagulated hues of spring. He is aimless. Map is optional when he wants to be swallowed whole by the ferocity contained in the cityâs ribcage.
Sidewalks transitioned from luminescent to fluorescent, his shadows more defined with each turn.
            He finds himself in the jugular of the city and reminds himself of a tale,                         long lost in skepticism and layering.
Rumors travel and decay; but he remembers this one by the inevitable pull that gnaws on his senses. Distorted vessels, atrocities embodied. He follows his instinct. Destination known.
      The crowd punctures in euphoric roar. They call it The Ring; bloodspill abound.
And he watches, bathing himself in sensing overdrive and lust for dissonance.
on the day of his first match, minho was terrified. this was the lair of scum, where those of the obscene assemble. but of course in time, he too has become much like these peculiar creatures; as everything that had once defined him vanished in time. not to say that he had admittedly become scum. when remnants of what once was crosses his mind, he doesnât acknowledge the lingering sorrow but the hole in his shapeless heart that called to be occupied once again. it called for adrenaline. now when he enters the ring, he does so with open arms to a second home. and where fear laced his swings stood something greater. the next evolution of passion: fury.Â
the dark figure rises before the morning, renewing his bandages and tending to every scar on his limbs. oddly enough, he grew fond of these bruises, each wound nursed with the greatest of care. and to say he was a masochist? quite the under statement. this was no longer a chore, but a hobby. however, over the years of his absence, he never once stopped to understand: the ring had truly changed him. but whoâs to say that this was a bad thing? what deems this development to be a burden? it was his means of comfort. proof that he was still valued, even if the circumstances were different. even if he were no longer needed.
and so here he was the next week, back for another round, another fix of that same adrenaline. it was a traditional caged fight between him and a menacing cloaked figure. initially, it wasnât given a proper introduction, but this round was all the same to the looming man of shadow. fight to win.
âand in this corner, we have the amorphous shadow, the man of darkness! misterrrr hat trick!â as the audience erupts, the two figures meet at the mid point. although minho couldnât quite decipher his opponentâs face, he extended his hand forward for the sake of âgood sportsmanshipâ. ..he was dismissively ignored soon after. it was safe to say that no one knew what to make of this anonymous stranger. nonetheless, they got into their positions, waited for their signal and instantly shot forward.
âand itâs minho who goes for the offense, casting his shadows left and right! but it seems that our mysterious ghost is playing it safe on the defense, swiping the field with the olâ bob and weave!.â despite his rough exterior, his moves remain precise and fluent. lunging his arms forward to weave the shadows, manipulating them at will. this swarm of dark ink sweeps the stage in the form of tendrils ready to pierce the figure through its cloak. but in a sudden turn of events, the cloaked opponent darts forward, evading every attack. fuming purely out of irritation, he reaches for the cloak without a moments notice, but to his surprise...
âwell steal my paycheck and take my wife! itâs a shape shifter taken in the form of our very own choi minho! youâve seen it here and now folks. the mysterious opponent is in fact a shape shifting, shadow dodging machine! but how will minho counter?â he doesnât. heâs petrified. it was like staring into the eyes of a ghost. this fiend had assumed the form of his past and shoved it right back in his face. clean suit, prominent neck stitches, and a wicked grin that signified that this match was end game for minho.Â
he couldnât stand a chance. given no time to recover, the shape shifter mirrors the shape of a blotched scythe through its arms, swinging forward, and wiping minho clean off the grounds. the match was over, and for the very first time in a long time, he lost.
by the time he gains consciousness, the lowly grunt gives an exceedingly irritated groan between gritted teeth, shoving his way out of the arena. he couldnât believe this. he was thrown off and lost completely. and because of some lowly impersonator, he lost his value, is what he thinks. paying no regards to audience around him, he pushes past those who stood in his path but unwittingly shoves himself against an unsuspecting spectator.Â
and in a brief moment, their eyes lock, except that his own gaze had spawned from pure anger, something unrecognizable. through the perspective of another, how would they perceive an aggressive rat? he didnât care. there were trash cans in the back alley that were just begging to be kicked, and there was no one in his way to stop  him. he needed to get away from the arena, and whatever the hell that disgusting shape shifter did to remind him that he use to believe that he mattered.
best and worst.
this couldnât possibly another morning after a heavy, crash influencing, daredevil inducing night. his butt hurts so heâs freaking out over the fact that itâs a guy with him in bed this time. heâs got to stop being depressed if this is gonna be the result each time. itâs a good friend too so while he waits for him to wake up, he sits and ponders, checking every pocket or anything possible spot in the room to remind him of what had transpired. heâs hoping thereâs no drugs involved in any of this but besides his butt, his nose hurts too. everything aches, pretty much. for a moment, he thinks of his nurse friend and feels guilty for such irresponsible actions.
then he sits on the edge of the bed in defeat, hands pressed against his eyes that still stung, he fakes a whimper as he was frustrated by the fact he couldnât remember anything. it seemed his feigned, lowly cries alerted the other male. he turns to face him, legs now sprawled on the plush of the mattress. âalright, letâs get this clearâŚâ he trails off, eyes somehow evading his own. unbelievable. he was getting embarrassed over a male. heâs just hoping his cheeks didnât reveal a blush or he would just have himself burned alive. âiâm not gay.â he points at himself, pausing once again before the words leave his mouth with hesitance. âare youâŚ?â
by the time the other wakes up, minhoâs already brought forward. sitting abnormally straight with the eyes of a broken man, he stares aimlessly, almost as if he were in some sort of unbreakable trance. it was when hyuntae called to him that his gaze wavered, head turned with the greatest weight weighed over him: a god damn hang over. but it wasnât a habbit to drink, last night seemed to be- for some reason, an exception.Â
â..what. what?â what was he? gay? did he just ask if he was.. a butt stuffer? how to answer.. given the context of the situation, they both were, in fact, stark naked, in bed. his bed? no, hyuntaeâs. the room was a mess and his muscles were sore. the only remnants that remained from last night were hazed with what he believed to be screaming, hysterically laughing, and a truck. but last he checked, none of them owned a truck. â..n...no, no definitely n- holy fuck.âÂ
in a hesitant moment, his words were cut short at the sight of thin black ink etched into the others body. âwait, is that- is that a tattoo? hyuntae whereâve you,â but to his own surprise, the disheveled man glances down at his own form and rips out an incredulous holler. âHOLY SHIT-,â a series of curses and âoh godâ soon follows after the moment  he discovered fresh bruises and tattoos over his torso. however, in the midst of his new-found, he stops, gives hyuntae a grave look, finger pointed as if the matter of life and death depended on it.Â
â... what the fufffuck just happened ?â
Tag people you want to get to know better! Tagged by: super soccer son @yuvta â¨Tag, youâre it!: @666babygirl999 @younhime @chaemami @yjhsemideus @bvngdaddyâ @parklunie @luhanflowerboy @thatpsychoker @chahakyeon-demigod @shinhyexdemigod @jkbaws @elvidercni @warmory NAME: choi minho â¨BIRTHDAY: 941209 â¨RELATIONSHIP STATUS: decapitated ZODIAC SIGN: sagittarius â¨SIBLINGS: the relevant ones: A psychotic ker, and perhaps an older not so fond ares brother â¨PETS: no pets. â¨TIME: 2:56 PM â¨PHONE: iPhone 5S â¨LOVE OR LUST: irrelevant â¨LEMONADE OR ICED TEA: iced tea â¨CATS OR DOGS: dogs. â¨COKE OR PEPSI: coke â¨DAY OR NIGHT: night â¨MEET A CELEBRITY: anyone from 9muses, EXID, SNSD, cillian murphy â¨CHAPSTICK OR LIPSTICK: chapstick â¨CITY OR COUNTRY: country â¨LAST SONG PLAYED: patrick watson - je te laisserais des mots
wisest with vices.
âif you canât bring me a guy who can fight, then you can kiss your spot goodbye, mr. hat trickâ
to where the disgruntled young man was going was might as well be one of the greatest mysteries of the day. to make matters just a tad bit difficult, he was expected to find another fellow, much like himself, and yet, all of his ties have been severed. even if they werenât, would any of them agree to such competitive exploitation? none that he knew of.Â
it was too early to assume, but it might as well have been the end for âmr. hat trickâ and his mysterious shadows. not that it would make a difference aside from the fact that it might just ruin his solid reputation of being the âtoughestâ and âbaddestâ from erebusâ side. oh well, perhaps next year, is what he tells himself. but just as heâs about to hang himself to dry, the air shifts, emitting a peculiar sense of.. something familiar. and ever so quickly, he follows, keen on its trail only to find himself in the middle of downtown surrounded by the crowds.
weaving his way through the crowds, his eyes lock on the nape of an unsuspected pedestrian almost like a predatory. the dark figure knew- somehow, that this boy, the one he found himself a tad too close too was one of him. and without a momentâs notice, he seizes his elbow, locking it with his and trudges into an unsuspecting alleyway.Â
âjust so weâre clear,â he speaks immediately before the other could struggle, âiâm on your side.â observing the latterâs form, his brow cocks at the inquiry that barely escapes his tongue.Â
âhalf god? ...i have a proposition.â
[ sends over a snap of minho's head with a full-pink flower crown, drag queen make-up, and all the pink glitter in the world on its eyelids ] yOO
@mrhattrick
a jpg. perfectly normal. but wait. whatâs that on the wall? spilled ink? black paint? no. itâs minhoâs vomit. regurgitated shadows. from his neck hole. god is dead.

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hsm remake comin ur way
đđđ ;) u a bobby
and on this day january 23, 2016. choi minho of the erebus family has indeed
died
to death.
now only one question remains.
then who
was phone
?