UNDER CO.

“We cannot wait / for angels. We’ll be our own gods now.” @oculvus

tagged by.  baby. [ @madeintokyo ] ♥ tagging.  @tatoshinobu, @oculvus, @orphous, @lostxlancet, @satvrnide, @grimgott + if you've done this already, please ignore!

+ Idiosyncratic twin of the melanic skin currently molded to Nut's body, serving as the ether for an acre of grandeur, over velvet sofas where an army of hearts sit batting in trochilidine prestissimo at tales being bodyprinted around thin pillars out of a serpent's panache, are neon fires hung by a breath, slathered upon the walls and floor to cradle the platform in an accentuation of the maquillage and light-play – the intermittent moon-falls amidst this mediam noctem permitting a hiemal hand to charm the envelope full of cheap threats into the palm without risk of discovery.

inchvate .

+ Nomadic footprints in the clouds of a universe floating from the encephalic depths — a syndrome they [ oh, you know those two, the fanged spintherism in your sleep! ] made for themselves, worn with pavonine hubris when they are eye to eye, followed by teenage adrenaline when they sway behind the chameleon pelage of their latibule ; the episode which is purpling the clock hands of that noon with a Lethean promise. This time brought about by the tachycardia of her curiosity, she wanted to taste his tradition and, in a party's skin, he tutored her ; the etiquette of brandishing blades and the teethwork of a wolf. Thus once aseptic bodies now each have over themselves a rubious cartography styled in tachisme running along the pale zardozi of sun-cut sweat that spills a thousand winks from chests synchronous with fire.

Drunk steps to the river of their personal ᴇ ᴅ ᴇ ɴ, class dismissed — in her hands, a poesy of knives and in his, a cervine skull. His laughter purls sacrilegiously along with the holy waters, 

// .

+ The cause of him pronouncing such a judgement upon her remains obnubilated – perhaps it is the argent talons of Selene combing her dusky hair, or the way her clothes melt with her January skin, but it is also possible that his vision has atrophied just a bit since having gone without practice on her ethereal being in quite a while ; a stranger familiar by frequent collisions between their eyes and little chats, the lady [ whose name is still unbeknownst to him, and who he supposes is not far beyond her fourth lustrum ] radiates a saccharine type of charm, always painting their moments together in tangerine. A smile creeps onto Hyunseung's own lips and, subsequent to her remark, he works his fingers through what he feels like disordered strands of his hair. "You don't think I look like a mess?"

(Nick)name: JS, Anubis, 89 *

Birthday: 1989, September 3

Zodiac Sign: Virgo

Height: 5'11" // 180cm

Time: 0354, GMT+9

Sleep: Rarely; mostly when struck by his disorder.

Favourite Books: Do pharmacopoeias count?

Favourite Artists: The Weeknd, The Neighbourhood, BANKS.

Last Movie I Watched: Can't remember.

College: Tutored at a private institution, Gashadokuro.

Dream Job: N/A.

+ Intermittent amaurosis of phosphenes, along with paroxysmal little aches – the disjecta membra of a battle fought unto the previous gamboge hour [ abreast of clinomania dancing his fingers away to weave into his chest a nicotine shahtoosh ] against the  a l c h e m y  within him – doesn't keep him from spending time outside and realizing his wish to try out this café, much less tatter that sacralized look of his, a ᴄᴏʀᴘsᴇ with the refulgence of a groom. In a place fitted up in a fashion refreshing to the eye, and so redolent of what seems to be fine coffee, it conveys to him the feeling that he would find no fault but mere comfort, as he indulges in his hot beverage and entertains himself with the steam moving like hips on an Arabian night.

Dragging one of the few available stools that line the counter, Hyunseung mouths to the barista his choice of drink, before his forearm perches upon the lustrous surface of the table and brushes with a pen he hadn't noticed earlier, causing it to drop. Irritation tugs at his dead heart childishly, but coolness is preserved; he flourishes the thin instrument at the nearest stranger – a face from Heaven –  once he has retrieved it. "Yours?"

“I don’t know, how many other came before this?” She asks looking at the male and tilting her head, her finger pointing at the glass he was holding in his hands. Her eyes moved on his and she smiled again. She could not say she knew the man, but they had seen in that very bar a few times, enough to make her be brave enough to approach the stranger. He seemed ok, particular for sure, but definitely not dangerous, enough for her to move closer.

+ A moment’s peer into those feline eyes, despite his carousel brain, affords him the view of a vespertine party, and to that pianissimo issuing from a throat as though sculpted by an artificer of excellent taste, is then added the faint, approaching screech from the legs of her chair, a response that has his smile – the chameleon skin of teeth lined with s c u m – growing wide. He is far from what she had seen before, asked by the virus inside for worn sobriety, but instead of drinks, she might be the one to help him make it through the afternoon. “If you guess correctly, I’ll take you wherever you want, or even buy you something.”

+ The slang for this district: incense, oshiroi, herbalism – the festival of sudare tanning under the skiagraphy practiced by sakura in a thousand mudras, suggestive of the early days when he toured outside Gashadokuro, of his psychosis for a clandestine love that once was loud, now mute from cardialgia. Reach deeper [ like where he is ], and one would find passages doused mainly in susurrant voices playing giggly prayers among little wars between footfalls, redolent of shrinelike tranquility, and note that they are outmatched in sense of physiognomy, but attractions there still keep the culture of lights the shades of koi, that has attained his appreciation for introducing him to colors he wishes he would often see when his head is lost in codeine feathers.