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thinking about Thor crying over every movie he watches , because there’s always something that reminds him of someone , and then reminds him that said someone is dead , and then reminds him that the reason they’re dead is because of him , and then reminds him that he’s alone .
i made a new friend!!!
“.. Mph..”
these questions are wonderful.
they also double as a way for my psyche to come back after it's been stuck "human".

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It's tiring. Being mad with US Americans is tiring.
You'll see some jackass, who probably didn't learn all the atrocities his country committed because there's so many of them they can't possibly fit it in history class and it really makes their country sound bad so there's barely any attempt to teach it, spouting shit and saying "you should be grateful to us" and you who, even if your history books were whitewashed from their country's colonization, learned of the atrocities gets mad and writes a rant about it. Because it's infuriating! The audacity after what they did!
And then you remember that not all US Americans are like that and it's not fair to lump them in one group. And now you're stuck with an anger that has no where to go.
My host is kinder than before. The door is still locked, but it is reasonable, security, a precaution in the face of the guards that patrol this part of the village; broken and rundown blacksmith, rusting landfill and dump in a short stride's distance, shadowed streets and narrowing alleys, and I find myself and my host to be living in a garret.
We make it work. It's slow movements and cumbersome sleep, hitched breath when the guard knocks and barges open the front door, wide eyes cast to each other, twin predictions of when discovery will occur. My host is not scared, so I am not either.
The basement had caved in was the reasoning I was gratefully given for why. I would not be able to stand to live in such close proximity to the thing that had ruined me so dreadfully; that glorius shining gate, just behind that flimsy shelf. Perhaps that was what my host was thinking too as I was led to the refurnished attic, and as we both avoided any glimpse of that awful color through hiding the miniscule window that lay with us.
If nothing else, I'm glad for the comradery. It startles me with how close terror brings two together.