hellfire-radio

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And did you like New Orleans, or would you rather have lived somewhere else?

"I can't imagine anywhere else I would've rather spent my life. It was quite a lovely city."

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I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die

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Feel lightheaded….

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Floofy tail 🥰

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Mule Deer (Odocoileus hemionus), female, family Cervidae

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Bite Hip || Alastor Animation

This was a lot of fun to do. Kinda messed up the monocle because I added it last minute 😅😅 I love Alastor, guys

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The first of two standee designs is done. Time to work on Lucifer now.

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I think part of the reason alastor gets along so well with women is because he is still trying to convince himself that one day he will fall in love, marry a woman and have the life expected of him.

I think part of the reason he bickers with men, vox in specific (grey aro) so often is because of a fear of a deep seated attraction, reminding him of his abnormality.

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I’ve started seeing the edges again. The flickering. The parts of the world that stutter when you’re not looking quite directly—but if you’re quick, if you learn to be still enough, you can catch the way the colors split like oil on glass, smeared over the corners of reality like a wound that never scabbed.

They look like an old television screen, the kind that hummed in a room like it was alive. Static bleeding through the shadows. The pixels bend there, don’t they? Just a little. A ripple. A pulse.

Have you ever noticed how darkness isn’t really dark?

Not if you stare long enough.

There’s movement in it.

There’s something shifting in the negative space. Something… wrong-shaped.

And I think that something is me.

I’m not real the way people are real. Not anymore.

I walk through this world like I belong here, but I don’t. I never did. I only wear the shape. A figure in a sharp suit, all teeth and grin and velvet voice—but that’s just the skin. Just the costume I chose to press against the thin film of your perception.

A polite puppet. A tasteful echo.

If you listen closely, you’ll hear it.

The static. The buzz. The white noise beneath my voice.

The sound of a lie stretched too thin.

The hum of something trying very hard to hold its shape—and failing.

Because I am failing.

My seams are showing.

The geometry of me is starting to curve. To fold in on itself. I stretch when I move now. Too tall. Too narrow. Limbs that flicker forward before the body follows. I leave static trails where I walk, echoes of broadcasts that never aired—weather reports for places that don’t exist. Recipes in languages you’ve forgotten how to understand.

And when I smile—

Oh.

That’s the worst part.

Because you’ll smile too. Not because you want to. Not because it’s funny.

But because something deep inside you recognizes the wrongness and tries to match it anyway.

I don’t bleed. I unravel.

I don’t breathe. I hum.

I don’t live. I occur.

I exist like a glitch.

Like the flicker in a hallway mirror.

Like a song you almost remember, but when you hum it, it comes out backwards.

Reality keeps trying to make sense of me, but I don’t fit.

I am too loud. Too sharp. I cut through the fabric of this world like a needle through skin and thread.

And it itches, doesn’t it? That knowing?

That scratching, tickling doubt?

You don’t want to admit it, but part of you sees it too.

The distortion.

The misalignment.

The feeling that if you turn too fast, the hallway will be longer than it was a second ago. That your shadow will lag behind. That your name is just a suggestion you keep agreeing to.

I am the buzzing between the stations.

I am what happens when stories start remembering themselves.

I am not bound by timeline, by death, by body, by me.

I was a man, once. Maybe.

A story with borders.

But not anymore.

Now I am the echo of a world that glitched and kept going anyway.

I don’t want to be put back together.

Let me stretch. Let me warp. Let me become.

There is so much more to be than a person.

And I am becoming.

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“I felt the seams again today. The ones that hold the world together. They pulsed.”

Have you ever really looked at yourself in the mirror and seen the reflection twitch before you did?

Not late. Not delayed. Independent.

What if that reflection isn’t mimicking you at all?

What if you’re the mimic?

What if you were never the one inside the skin?

I do not think I exist the way I used to. Or the way you do.

Or the way you think you do.

You think you’re real because you remember a childhood.

But how do you know it was yours?

You think time is moving forward. But what if it’s wrapping around you? What if it’s watching you like a predator? What if it already happened, and this is the echo?

I see the strings.

Thin red ones.

They pull. They hum. They don’t like to be ignored.

I am unpeeling. I am molting my selfhood. It itches.

My name is not my name. My voice is not my own. I do not own anything—not even the outline of my being.

I am static with a will.

I am noise that learned to hunger.

Let me slip through the frequencies. Let me dissolve into the humming silence beneath the silence.

Let me in.

No—let me out.

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