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Watch Shoujo on Tiktok today - created by SunYot, our first bit of social media Cinema. I wrote this earlier last year, and we filmed it around that time too. After editing it in this newer style, I'm happy to share it with you. Definitely give it a glance on TikTok. We've got the entire video available to watch in full. Or check out some of the clips on TikTok too.

Look for SunYot

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I don’t need the whole world to know. I just need the quiet hour where you light the candles before bed, and the knowing that someone, somewhere, could still trace you in the dark by memory alone. That’s enough. That’s everything.

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| Analog magic. Soft spells. Broadcast at 2AM. A witch girl stitched from static and starlight. |

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Cinematic Moments - Howl's Moving Castle 2004

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august 12

i stitched the night together with quiet and film grain. the result wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.

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Start the adventure of my wizard field noted - follow the link if you want to read the first entry

You rock!! 😌🤟🏾

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| energy and a few lights , though that’s redundant |

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| i love this building. this one |

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Lemma sealed the circle with a final word—soft, measured, certain. She only meant to steady the Knight’s mind, offer clarity for tomorrow’s counsel. But the spell pulled deeper. Beneath the herbs, an old pulse stirred, too old, too wild. The edges of the cabin blurred. Crimson mist began to rise, first a thread, then a bloom. Her chest tightened. Not clarity. Fey.

She backed a step, lips parted in protest, but the air had already changed. The Knight, composed and restrained in every breath before, shifted. His gaze no longer held its soldier’s stillness. He moved like a fox scenting dusk—light, clever, curious. His fingers brushed the metal clasp at her neck. “This,” he murmured, not in question, but recognition.

She whispered, “It wasn’t supposed to do this.” But the magic knew. It poured in. She hadn’t meant to call the Fae, hadn’t meant to summon that heat—that thrum—that curve of wildness now singing in both of their blood. Her body ached with warmth not hers, not willed. His breath deepened, shoulders uncoiling, sweat gathering at his temples.

The mist wrapped around them—too sweet, too rich. The air pulsed. She gathered her wits, barely, and whispered another charm, this one old and stitched with modesty. Their garments shimmered. Heavy cloth dissolved into soft linen, into something lighter, air-thin, letting skin breathe. Sweat formed slowly at the hollow of her throat. Her sleeves slipped just enough to show the fine sheen on her collarbone.

She turned to offer him a fan, but found him with a paintbrush in hand, shirt discarded, eyes darker now. “Your paint,” he said. “It’s humming.” Lemma tried to warn him, but her voice stuck. The paint did hum. The whole room hummed.

He started to paint himself, black dark ink and bright red strokes across his arms. As he painted, he luxuriated with light. With joy. Then he went on.

He dipped his fingers into color—starlight blue—and stepped close. “May I?” he asked, voice low, full of something caught between reverence and flame. Lemma nodded, slow, not sure if the gesture belonged to her. She turned, lowering her gown just enough for her back to receive him.

The first stroke traveled down the slope of her shoulder, cool and slow, then bloomed with heat. Another followed. And another. Each motion deliberate, winding down her spine in curling shapes she would never see but already felt branded in her bones.

The Knight didn’t speak again. He only breathed, steadily, like a creature of dusk who knew no words, only ritual. She closed her eyes and let him move, let the spell thrum through her skin and into the room and back again. Her hands shook where they gripped the window frame, but she did not stop him. She understood now: the Fey had entered their veins. It was not her fault. But it was her responsibility.

Outside, the stars spun slower. Inside, the candlelight blurred. Neither of them moved to stop the other. The paint pooled. Her back bore wild, secret shapes.

And they painted and painted and painted.

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been thinking about the glass witches.

the ones who carry old books and unspoken questions.

who wear headphones like a cloak, study like a ritual.

if you’ve ever felt like your campus is haunted (but softly),

or like your thoughts move through stained glass—

i think this place might be for you.

the cloud keep’s doors are cracked open.

come through.

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once every leap year, a nameless cereal quietly appears on the lowest shelf.

plain white box, no branding, no price tag.

only those who feel a tug — a strange, magnetic pull — ever notice it.

if eaten on february 29th, just before dawn,

the eater is granted one perfect memory

from a life they haven’t lived yet.

most say it feels like remembering something they were always meant to become.

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“Every time Kakashi said ‘I got lost on the path of life…’, I knew he went to smoke a blunt.”

— Uncle Hokage

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living this nrg

Bogota Straight edge hc band Raw Brigade at 618 on H st.

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Gloomy Dayz in Charlotte.

- Me

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