#like our obsession with the falsely convicted

[bioethicists]

i'm just thinking abt how many providers i've had who heard my story abt psychiatric abuse + immediately individualized it. "oh, you're so smart + kind+ obviously sane! you didn't deserve that! i can't believe they gave you that diagnosis when you're obviously not like that! they shouldn't have treated u like that when all you did was xyz! they shouldn't have assumed you were crazy like that!"

there is always a third person haunting this interaction- the patient who does deserve that, who is "actually" that evilscary diagnosis, who did Have To be treated like that. if i want to soak up the affirmations of these providers, i must be careful to never become this third person. i must affirm myself by setting myself apart from her- i did not deserve to be treated like that because i am not like that.

i reject this. not only was i like that, she + everyone else like that deserve everything i deserve. they are my siblings + my friends + my lovers. i do not need to cut them out of me to believe i deserved better. i refuse to comfort myself through the lens of someone else's dehumanization. the tragedy is not that psychiatric violence was applied to someone who not insane enough to warrant it. the tragedy is the violence.

[cosmiccrushes]

Truth & Lies

Solas x Lavellan

1k words

I'm obsessed with the idea of Solas watching lavellan in her dreams, like ugh, the s u f f e r i n g

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He knows she dreams of this cove and its soft green meadows often. For he waits in its shadows for her return. Beckoning her to walk in this place where they once stood together. Where he had looked upon the markings on her face and told her what it meant, lying about how he knew. Meaning to tell her a different truth and lying to himself about why he could not.

So much lying. And still too much truth. 

Solas had a plan. He really did. It was with painful, teeth gritting stubbornness that he had forced himself to maintain that plan when Corypheus fell and the Breach was sealed. He had left her. She was a threat to his plans. Lie. What she made him feel, that was the real threat. Truth. 

The people needed him still. He could not let one Dalish elf change that. No matter how beautiful he found her piercing green eyes. No matter how his heart squeezed at her openness and curiosity. No matter how he felt his beliefs waver in her presence when she spoke with such passion and protectiveness for this world and those in it. No matter the pride she held towards her Dalish kin. She did not really know what could be, what had been. 

Solas knew what must be done. Knew it every time he let his lips press to hers. Still he had held on. She had made it so hard to let go. Her wanting of him made him yearn. He wished he could simply be an outcast- just an elf who saw the world differently with no real power to do anything about it. But he was not that elf. He was power and potential. The Dread Wolf. He Who Hunts Alone. A false god of betrayal and rebellion. His rebellion was not yet over. Nor it seemed, was his betrayal. 

He knew her learning his truth would hurt. What he had not been prepared for was the doubt that crept in like a fog settling over his eyes, clouding his vision forward. Looking into her eyes, clear and bright with unshed tears, as he finally gave her the truth of who she shared her heart with…it had not just been painful for him- it had felt wrong. 

She had pleaded with him. “Var lath vir suledin!” Our love will endure. His reply, “I wish it could, vhenan.” He really did. But he knew in that moment- when his arms ached to hold her and his weary bones longed to lay with her and forget his responsibilities- their love could not endure. He must rip her out of his heart or rip his whole heart out of him if she could not be removed from it as he feared. He could not afford to feel doubt for what must be done. He could not allow these feelings for her to continue and plague his mind with wrongness for what comes next. 

So he had turned away from her. Taking a last kiss and then her arm, because even in his conviction that she was a threat to his plans, he could not bear to see her suffer. The anchor was killing her and the thought of her dead burned like fire inside his veins. Nevermind that when he was through with his objective, she might be dead anyway. No, his jaw hardened at that thought. She would survive. She had to survive. The new world would need people like her.

He needed her.

But no, that thought was forbidden now- a dark magic he did not dare to wield. A truth he must bury away under a mountain of lies.

She would live- and when he was done she would see- this way was better, this was setting the world right.

Those first months after they parted had been hard, but not impossible he found. He could force himself not to think of her and it worked. Until it didn’t. Until he lay awake at night, thinking of a different bed and a midnight when he didn’t feel so terribly alone. 

The first time she appeared to him in his Fade-dreamed version of their cove, he had not considered how dangerous it was for him to visit this once shared space. Coming here, he had allowed himself to once more indulge in his selfishness, indulge in the memory of what another world could have been like. One where she existed as more than the ghost of fingerprints on his skin. 

Had her name, whispered into his dreams, led her here? Had she brought herself? She had been resolute at their parting that she would not give up on him. So he had been resolute in giving up on her. I would not have you see what I become, he had told her. Truth.

But here she was- haunting his dreams.

He had reacted quickly, hiding himself away before she noticed his presence fully. Then he watched. He knew he should not, but he did anyway. A man dying of thirst, now drowning in an ocean. After that first night, he welcomed the flood. Soaked in its waters. If he could not cast her out of his heart, he could at least contain her in this cove of fantasy and possibility. The him who existed on these shores need not exist elsewhere. He could look upon his heart- know she was safe and far away from the Dread Wolf and the Din'anshiral he walked. 

So yes, he knows she dreams of this meadow often. Knows she has caught glimpses of him. Knows that if he seeks her out as he walks the Fade, she will find him. Knows that she searches for him. Knows that he should not encourage it. Lies to himself that it is okay like this, that he can be okay like this, watching her from afar. 

Var lath vir suledin.

At least this is the lie he allows himself to believe when he slips into dreaming at night, imagining a weight pressed to his chest and his arms winding around the greatest truth he has ever known. 

I wish it could, vhenan. Truth. 

My love…I will never forget you. Truth.

So much lying. And still too much truth. 

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader

❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut

❣ Word Count: 10.1k

❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love.

❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior.

❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

❣ Chapter 1: Memento Mori ❣

Have you ever thought about death?

How many times have you asked yourself, “What will happen to us next?” “Is there something on the other side?” “Will we see the shining light at the end of the tunnel and the white-winged angels, or is it just darkness waiting for us?”

We constantly reflect on this, sitting in the noisy company of friends, frozen for a moment in cold numbness; late at night, when there is no sleep and gloomy thoughts creep into your head; on the subway, bus, or taxi returning home from work or school, desperately understanding the desperation of their situation; recurring days in endless solitude.

We should stop doing that. When the time comes, we will ask ourselves other, more important questions.

Nevertheless, we tirelessly continue to be interested in it. Again and again, until our clock stops.

Sometimes I think all we have after we die are flowers and regrets. In our soul, heart, and mind, every second, there are many events that do not obey any rules of formal logic. All that we lose at death. There is no longer the privilege of choice that we had in life; now we have to settle for small, choking on despair and memories, staring into our own reflection on a silver epitaph.

“Our love will stay with her forever.” It would sound like a dream if it weren’t such a dirty lie.

I don’t think love exists. It’s like a sweetener: we feel sweetness, but the brain realizes it's fake, sending out red signals warning of deception. But we still desperately crave this feeling, however painful it may be.

And yet, after death, our lives go on, and in some special cases, we find ourselves more alive than ever before.

It's our time to watch as the new story unfolds, and the usual roles are played by other actors. New names appear on the waiting list, and celebratory ribbons are given to the new queens. See how fake diamonds sparkle in their luxurious crowns. Despite that, you’re the star of this show. Your name is in the news, in the bold headlines on the front pages of newspapers, and every casual passer-by claims to have known you personally while you still existed in a small, closed time period called life.

So what does it feel like to be the only spectator in the front row? The main subject of general regret.

In our cooled consciousness, a sharp conviction of our own uselessness is born and settles. Friends we used to call the best put your stuff in boxes with ribbons of tape. A family that tears the remnants of your life apart, erasing your name from the family register with a sickeningly straight line of black ink. Acquaintances and colleagues, always smiling with an astringent sweetness that glues their teeth, easily remove your number from the contact list and open their palms in a welcoming gesture to those who came to take your place.

All of them, all these people close to us, express their false regrets about your untimely departure, putting a tick in front of the memorized phrase: “Ah, we are so sorry. She was young and beautiful.” Is that what they usually say?

That’s all; our race for popularity is over. The rules of good manners and standards of appearance no longer matter. Your thoughts, actions, and preferences belong only to you, and at this very moment, we feel freedom. Short time, but still freedom.

It is only a short moment until the lid of the coffin closes completely over us. And here we are, face to face with our past, alone.

As hard as it may be for us to admit it, it's true. All that remains for us after death is regret.

Each of us has our own. Someone feels regret for the love that he could not protect and the loved ones that he has lost forever. We regret the things we’ve done and the words we haven’t said, but most of all, we regret the time we’ll never get back.

The dead mourn more than the living.

Besides regrets, we’re taking flowers with us. Yes, these beautiful creatures are leaving with us to one day wrap around our bones, sever the grayish subtlety of our skin, and grow again above the ground, eating us like a parasite. 

The flowers also symbolize the grand finale of our celebration. When the music dies down and the curtain falls, they will be the only ones who will stay side by side while the guests leave the lavishly decorated hall one by one.

Have you noticed how many bouquets are brought to cemeteries?

I like to think of it as a peculiar payment for our rest. Maybe death is as in love with these deliciously fragile things as we are, and that’s why they’re leaving with us. Silent companions who hold our hand as we go into the darkness.

The path to the origins of the great Sanzu River is paved with bloody lycoris and mournful lilies. Truly a magnificent sight. Ugly and beautiful are two sides of the same coin.

When I was little, Mina told me many different stories. Some warmed my cheeks and stretched my lips in a happy smile; others were gray, like days with incessant downpours. I wrapped myself in blankets and warmed my palms with warm cups of herbal tea, but there were other stories that I didn't want to remember until now.

They were sinister, like a spider hovering on a web waiting to be sacrificed. The words were sharp; they pierced the skin, leaving long, stinging wounds. Meaning has always been terrible; like a blade in the tongue, it could not be swallowed and understood. I was afraid. I was scared to death. I could not sleep in the light of a bright day or in the mist of a starry night; in the coziness of the blankets, there was no warmth or protection, and the mocking laughter of Mina made it worse.

My grandmother scolded her and assured me that all this was nonsense, empty words, and legends formed from idleness, but I knew better. There was truth in Mina's stories, and the realization of this only made them scarier.

The most terrible of them was the story of a young man in black silk robes. Beneath the black veil was a sensual smile, and the fox's heterochromic eyes were alluring and sparkling like stars.

Was he a nine-tailed kumiho? A black reaper holding death itself on a leash? He may have been a vampire, desperate and thirsty, but personally, I was sure he was a ghost. A past woven into a single canvas, thread by thread, stitch by stitch. I think I saw him once, during the Lunar Festival. He was the center of my little universe, the otherworldly and inexplicable, his long black clothes flowing to the ground like a waterfall, and the diffused light of the treacherous moon embraced his silhouette like a caring mother’s embrace.

I thought the world was dancing around him. The children were running around laughing and circling like butterflies in the round dance; the couple were whispering nicely, their palms intertwined tightly, as if it would save them from the inevitable parting; and the others were simply enjoying the festival time, waiting for the sheaves of colorful fireworks to explode in the sky.

His eyes pierced my figure so greedily and sharply. I saw hunger in them. A thirst. A goal. 

And then I screamed. So loud and disgusting in a childish way. With a shrill screech, I rushed into the crowd, hoping to find Mina. The colorful ribbons in my hair rushed into the air, and the wind bore me the echoes of his sweet laughter.

He was mocking me. I could have run, but he could have caught me in a second if he wanted to. For a moment, I looked back to make sure that he was still standing there, covered with moonlight and a myriad of stars, but the long, flowing silk of his black robes melted like a mist in the night without leaving a trace.

Mina laughed mockingly as I clung to the lush skirts of her violaceous hanbok, sobbing, choking with tears, and pointing my finger in the direction where I saw the young man with the fox’s eyes.

After that incident, I didn’t sleep for days, couldn’t eat, and was afraid of every noise.

From that night on, I began to believe in ghosts. They are among us. We can see them, reach them, and hear their whispering voices. Science cannot explain them; they are not subject to it. They are mistakenly called fictions, twisted forms of memories that acquire real outlines and are indistinguishable from the real world.

Science calls it imagination; I call it another form of life. Ghosts exist. They’re always there.

The line between the dead and the living is thin and fragile. If you push it a little harder, it’ll shatter.

It’s true—life after death exists.

I was told once that death is like being submerged in water. First, the lungs start to burn from a lack of oxygen; the body gets heavier; the eyes are baking, but we’re still conscious; and the brain continues to function. Then comes the next step. Our body desperately clings to life, continuing to contract the heart muscle. Bam, bam, bam. Deaf blows on the rib. If you start acting now, there is little hope of salvation. No more than a minute. And then, after that, there’s the final stage. Clinical death. Smooth stripe on the monitor.

Our sinking is over. We have reached the bottom. We have met eternity in the muddy depths, blended with the muddy sand and pearls.

That may be true, but for me, death is no more than a moment—until the last flowers on the grave fade.

I never thought about dying. Until it happens to Mina.

The first time I met death, it was with my first breath. I was born with silence—too small, too fragile, and painfully quiet.

Then there were the piercing sounds of medical devices and the screams of doctors and assistants. I was taken away instantly and carried far into the sterile, transparent box. Death retreated, but it didn’t go away.

I was only three when my parents died. Mina was squeezing my hands and talking about a long journey. Grandma took us to her old country house, where secrets were hidden and hyacinths blossomed. At the time, the very concept of grief was not clear and tangible to me; rather, the feeling was like frostbite, when the skin was already dead, but the pain was absent.

So I knew death before I even knew it.

My grandmother died suddenly. Her life was cut short in an instant, like a thread brought to the flame. I knew it; it seemed long before it happened. That summer, I was going to be at a ballet camp, and Mina was the star of the school, and she was planning on spending time with her cheerleading friends. Just one call changed all our plans. Short skirts and ballet points replaced chrysanthemums and black ribbons. Mina was grieving, taking condolences, while I watched from the sidelines. Grandma's leaving seemed like a dull pain from an old injury rather than a sharp cut, and it was easier to deal with than I thought.

This was the third time I'd known death.

And then Mina happened.

The passionate, bloody, grandiose Mina's death. By closing my eyes, I could see her face again. White, sun-drenched, and blood roses, her long fluttering eyelashes, and scattered carmine strands of hair.

She was not at all afraid to die, as if this scenario had been memorized by her. Isn't it an innate instinct, a fear of the unknown, of death? We are frightened by monsters under the bed and horrors lurking in dark corners. We must be afraid of death. We are obliged to do this from the very moment we are born.

Mina was not afraid. She was never afraid of anything, unlike me.

Spiders, darkness, roses…

The list goes on.

When she died, I realized two things: one, nothing lasts forever, and two, I wanted to know what happened to my sister and what became her trigger. Big red button. At my request, an autopsy was conducted to rule out a drug-induced hypothesis that could have caused mental and emotional distress. Forensics found nothing in her lungs except rose petals. Mina literally breathed flowers. It sounded almost fantastical to me. Even her death was beautiful. Forever the first violin in the orchestra. 

The case of her mysterious disappearance was closed. There was no point in looking for someone who was already dead. I asked the detectives to continue the investigation, but despite my desperate pleas, the police were adamant. My sister’s once-radiant life was packaged in a pair of cardboard boxes with a large-scale signature in black marker. “An Mina, case 117”. With each passing day, everything about Mina sank into darkness, but the mysteries and secrets around her only grew larger.

Once upon a time, I could call Mina an open book. It was easy to read—all the emotions, character traits, and habits—everything in it was exaggerated; there was no middle. Her love was never a simple hobby; it was always sharp, risky, and passionate.

Perhaps that is why she so easily fell into an obsession with roses; her feelings took a dangerous path.

I wanted to know who gave her these fabulous roses, who sent her candy and little sweet notes. There was something wrong with all of this, and not just the fact that the lush pink buds didn’t fade. No. It was a feeling, something very ominous, like a calm before a hurricane. A frightening, unnatural silence when all is silent and the air is gathering in front of the thunder's stunning storms.

There’s a long, unrequited tranquility on the other side of the phone line.

In the Japanese language, there is the expression “koi no yokan,” which literally means the feeling of inevitable love for the person you first met. This is not love at first sight, but a premonition of future love. So it was with these roses; they were not evil as such, but they were the inevitable omen of his coming.

True evil does not come in the form of a little red man with sharp horns and a long tail. Evil is beautiful—almost religiously magnificent. His appearance is divine and seductive, attracting the sweetness of the forbidden. Of course, the Devil himself was once an angel. And not just anyone; he was God’s favorite.

So are these flowers. I’ve never heard of people falling in love with soft petals and spiny stems. No one ever sings strange prayers for roses and dedicates his life to them without a trace. Those roses were bigger than they looked.

I think that Mina’s death was not accidental; it wasn’t suicide. Something broke her, violated her mind, and eventually destroyed her. Whether they were roses or people who gave them, that was my question. It was a secret hidden in the white folds of her lace dress, the dreamy smiles, and the names she spoke with such awe.

During Mina's funeral, I was approached by one of the lawyers who handled her legal affairs. I had to sort out the property rights and the lots of pages with numbers, dates, and places. Mina left me not only secrets but also a great legacy. As it turned out, in addition to our common apartment, she had several other assets in her possession, including her grandmother's mansion, which at one time she received as a sole inheritance, shares in various companies, and investments abroad.

I am now the sole owner of all this.

I had no idea where to start looking for answers or where to find the keys to the secret locks. Maybe I can find something in her files between the lines and the capital letters, or maybe it’s all dry formalities. So, going to the lawyer sounded like a good start to me.

How many can hide from those who command our last will?

Even so, I didn't want to be alone with Mina's secrets if I could find something in her belongings. I decided to call Soomin, who was once Mina’s best friend, the closest, to be exact. She was always there, having fun and crying with Mina, supporting and comforting when needed. Soomin was an integral part of her life. My life.

After the incident with the roses, they split up, not on the best of terms. Their conversation completely ended, but I still continued to spend time with her, and we often went to brunch at various gourmet cafés that Soomin loved so much. She was an elite restaurateur and had great taste, not only in the interior but also in food.

In a way, she completely replaced my sister. Soomin always told me, “No orgasm can ever match a stunningly cooked fondant au chocolat”. Yeah, I could totally agree with her on that.

After dialing her number, I waited for an answer. The wait was not too long, and after the second tone, I heard the melodic voice of Soomin on the other side. “Hello” “Soomin, I'm sorry to distract you from work; can you give me a few minutes?

“Sarang? I can’t believe you finally called me. How are you feeling, honey? I’ve been really worried about you, you haven’t spoken to any of us all this time.” In her voice, there was a sincere concern that resembled a mother's. 

Soo has always been so caring and gentle. In her was the same fascinating brightness that Mina possessed, which brought them very close and became the strong foundation of their friendship, but unlike Mina, who resembled a raging forest fire, Soomin was a comforting flame of home. One was ready to destroy everything around her; the other collected ashes in beautiful vases and kept them as precious memories.

After Mina died, she was there for me when I especially needed support.

“Sorry, Soomin, I’m still trying to get over it." I sounded exhausted, even to myself. The days spent in voluntary isolation completely drained me emotionally and physically. I was the alarm of danger light for my friends. “You know, when she went missing, it was hard for me, but I was still hoping she’d come back. I convinced myself that Mina was fine and that she was enjoying life surrounded by her favorite roses.” It was the first time I had spoken openly about my feelings since Mina’s death. “I never imagined that my sister would slit her throat in front of me. I still have nightmares, Soomin, but I’m calling you for another reason, I have a little favor to ask you.”

“Sarang, you should feel like this; it’s okay. What happened to Mina traumatized you; damn it, it would have traumatized anyone if they were you. We agreed to give you time to get over it at your own pace, but when you didn’t answer our messages and calls, we started to worry. Eun Jung even offered to come to you several times; you know how she is.” She was anxious, and I understood why. “I’ll help with everything I need; just tell me how I can do it.”

“You agree too quickly, Soo.”

“Sarang, please stop. The only thing I can offer you now is my help. I can’t imagine how you’re handling all this, and if you need my help, I’ll be there for you. So stop denying me and tell me what you wanted to ask.”

“Do you remember Mina’s lawyer who approached me at the funeral? I think it’s time I met him. It’s all about inheritance and property, but there’s something else.” I started off insecure. “I want to find out who sent her those stupid roses.”

“Why?” in her voice sounded like sincere surprise. “If you were me, would you want to know how it all started?”

“Probably, but aren't you afraid? Judging by how it turned out for Mina,” she stammered for a second. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

“No, you’re right. Absolutely. I’m scared, and if things weren’t so messed up, maybe I would have done something different, but listen, Soomin, I have a strong feeling that I’m always missing something, and it’s bothering me.” “People don't change so dramatically, and certainly not because of the roses. You've been friends with her for so long, so you know her as well as I do, and we both understand that it's crazy to give up everything in your life for roses like that. Especially for Mina.” When I spoke my thoughts out loud, I was even more convinced that I needed answers. It really was crazy. “ She left so many secrets that I want to find a clue. I haven't told anyone, but the roses are still being sent. I received a call from the cemetery administration saying that her grave was littered with flowers, and they needed to figure out what to do with them. Not only that, but I also received several bouquets.” There was no point in hiding it anymore. If I want Soomin to help me, she needs to know about those roses that were sent to me.

“My God, Sarang, you should have told me right away. Did you talk to JiHo? This is an abnormal situation. What if you’re being chased, Sarang? I don’t know, it’s all so scary.”

“You have no idea, but I don’t think we should talk about stalking.”

“Why? Maybe it’s a stalker or serial killer; you should be careful. Please tell me JiHo is living with you now.” “First, I don’t think anyone in their right mind is going to come after me, and second, JiHo and I took a pause.”

“Did you break up?” she asked with an incredulous echo.

“I'm not sure if you can call it a breakup.”

“God, the bastard left you. I always told you he was a rare asshole and would run away at the first opportunity.”

“Soomin, let’s not talk about it, but if you want to hear it, yeah, you were right about him.” The memories of our conversation with my ex were still fresh and festering in my mind like a ball of worms.

It’s very convenient to hide behind phrases like “let’s take a break,” “you need time to figure things out,” “emotional vacation,” etcetera. No one wants to be a part of your grief. At this party, the cake belongs entirely to you.

“Okay, let’s close the JiHo thing. Tell me, do you know anything about who sent the roses? Any ideas?”

“Absolutely nothing; I’m stuck. There’s nothing that can help. No address, no sender’s name, Maybe we can find something in her files or stuff; I don’t know.”

“Yes, it’s possible. When do you want to go to a lawyer?”

“This Friday, if you’re free?”

“Give me a minute,” the papers rustled on the other side, Soomin clearly trying to find the day she needed in her diary. Knowing the nature of Soo, it was difficult to make out anything there; her records were always chaotic, and careful planning was not her forte. In this, too, she was similar to Mina.

“I’m totally free. How about going to brunch first and then to the lawyer?

You could use some fun, and I’ve always wanted to go to this new trending place. I hear they serve incredible fondant au chocolate, and the owner looks like God cut him out. How does that sound? “First, tell me, are we going there for the fondant or the owner?”

“You can’t judge me; everyone’s talking about how attractive this man is; I just want to see.” Soo softly dissipated.

“Have you betrayed your love of chocolate for a man? Kim Soomin is something new. Anyway, everything sounds great. Let’s go and see if those rumors are true, but if I were going there solely for the chocolate,” I smiled at that thought. I’ve really been lacking in communication lately. We should start coming back to the real world. “Do you know the address?” “Sure, I’ll pick you up at 11:00. Please wear something prettier than a black dress.” “It’s a classic, and thank you again, Soo.”

“You have nothing to thank me for, Sarang. Finally, I can call you like that, you know, Rosa, it doesn’t suit you. I’ll see you Friday, baby.”

“I think so, too. Until Friday.” I put the phone aside, taking a deep breath. The long stems of white roses had folded in half in the cramped bin. A luxurious wrapping in a rare shade of Solferino and embroidered topaz ribbons lay next to the bulky pile, and a small note was shrunk into a perfect ball that was also lying in the trash.

Whoever sent those flowers should have stopped doing that. I’m not Mina. I don’t like roses.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

How quickly does the waiting time pass? We count the days, the hours, and the minutes until the exciting event we’re expecting, circled by a thick red line in the calendar, but is it really worth our time, which life has measured for us?

It's so strange; the days are like bottles of sand thrown by a restless ocean onto a flickering glass bank. I remember this one, crystal blue—it smells like strawberry cheesecake and summer heat. And this one, made of gloss and pearls, is full to the brim with grave earth and chrysanthemum petals. I like the one that sparkles with diamonds from the royal frosted glass; it smells like a lover’s pillow, and there are memories of the first love. There is another, very ordinary, and therefore the most precious—empty and at the same time full. If you open it, you can hear the gentle wind whispering your name.

My life is all about memories now. I’m just trying to keep what’s left.

The rest of the week passed unnoticed by me. Time, like the rapid trains at the station, rushed by, and I kept waiting to see the stop I needed in this incessant turmoil.

Existing in space is very simple when it belongs only to you. I did actions that were memorized to the finest detail, simple mechanisms that gradually brought me back to my normal state. Feed the neighbor’s cat. Do the cleaning. Go for a walk. Check the mail. Cook dinner. Ordinary things to take your mind off the colorful bottles on the shelves of consciousness and the endless cycle of nightmares.

And I also noticed that at night, time flows more slowly. Second by second, replace the glowing dial until dawn. And so on until the ruthless rays of the sun insidiously penetrate between the tightly woven threads of heavy boudoir curtains, and the golden shadow spills over the pampered skin like boiling water.

I think I'm allergic to the sun and, therefore, to the stars.

Maybe the whole world.

Today I woke up earlier than usual. Somewhere below the horizon, the sun splashed in the golden ichor of the predawn twilight. Yoru stretched out at the foot of the bed, warmed by tiny drops of warm light that seeped into the room through the window. Last night, she refused to leave, stubbornly ignoring my presence and my tender pleas to return home to her mistress.

Yoru was my neighbor’s cat, perfectly embodying all its best features: a slightly aggressive, capricious, and having a little bit of arrogance. Despite this, she had a strange affection for me and often stayed at my house if she was in the mood.

Other tenants avoided Yoru, considering her a bad omen, and it was not only the polished glossiness of her black fur; she always appeared where death later came. I didn't care; I've always loved cats, and having one of them in my house was a bit of comfort. I wasn't alone.

Sensing my awakening, her almond-shaped eyes flashed with the sharp color of precious stones in the slits of the eyelids—a thick amber glow, not yet warmed by curiosity or playfulness. Yoru tossed and turned, clearly unhappy that someone had disturbed her sleep, arched her back and closed her eyes again.

We could lie like this all day long, in silence and some strange harmonization. I’m sure she’ll get close to me a little bit later, calculating her every move, until he presses on his heart with a peaceful, relaxed purr. Unfortunately, today was not the day I could afford it. Soomin will soon be here, and I need to get a little tidy.

Shower. Food. Simple things. Jars of creams and neatly arranged lipsticks Are there certain rules of appearance when you go to a lawyer? What dress should I wear—a deep neckline or open legs? How decent?

Should I still look mournful? Should I wear a veil? Two months have passed; are other colors acceptable? What will he think of me?

So many questions were spinning in my head while I was going, and it seems to me that whatever I choose, it will still be inappropriate. The story of Mina was not a passing affair; probably everyone in the city had fleetingly heard about her death. One of my friends told me she was called “Queen of Roses” because of the flowers in her hair, and I saw the headlines of the “exquisite death” articles.

The black color dripped venomously to the floor with the long hems of the dresses in my wardrobe; the gray, like a mist, settled in the loops of cardigans and oversized sweaters; and the ghostly white terrified me with thin transparent lace and ruffles, just like on Mina's dress. The choice was not too large.

A jacket dress on a naked body made of thick matte silk, a little pearl, and a high choker collar with long falling threads, It was one of the old jewels I bought in a small antique shop. Vintage trinket in the style of Queen Marie-Antoinette. I had a whole collection of such chokers—some studded with precious stones made of expensive jewelry metals, others woven with the finest threads, like a skillfully woven web. Hard made of steel and leather, and soft, like angelic kisses, made of organza and velour. JiHo once said I had a choke kink if I liked things like that; maybe I did, but my ex was too “vanilla” to close his hands around my neck.

After getting dressed and styling my hair, I sat down on the couch and waited for Soomin to arrive. What should I do now? I was lost. Turn on the TV or read a book? Look at the news feed on Instagram; be sure to look at JiHo's profile to see his new photo. Does he miss me or not? Is someone else warming up his bed now that I'm not around? Is JiHo still wearing the same perfume as before, or has he found something different?

Anyway, I never liked his perfume; it was salty like tears and distant ocean breezes and rancid like decaying wood in the dense Amazon. He called them gourmet; I could only agree if they were worn by someone else, say someone more dominant and powerful. Maybe I would even find this strange, gloomy mixture of aromas attractive, inhaling it from someone else's hot skin and feeling with the touch of my lips a steadily beating pulse in the swollen veins on a strong neck.

How long does love last? Three years or more? For me, it's a moment; for others, it's an eternity. I loved him. It's true. Very strong and very long ago. My love did not resemble the indomitable elements or the explosions of colored fireworks; rather, it was the fragrant bloom of wildflowers and the scattering of stars in the sky. She was comforting, not passionate, and I wanted to see someone like me, someone who could comfort my heart and give me tenderness.

Tenderness and comfort alone were enough for me, but deep inside, I wanted something dangerous, something forbidden. I was devout, one of those people who are called “good girls,” but was it really me or the role that Mina gave me?

Maybe in the far corners of my mind, my thoughts weren’t as good and right as they should be. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, but sometimes when I woke up from another nightmare, I was glad she was dead. Dark, reckless emotions made their way through my cracks; they were moments of despair as my anger lifted its ugly head and oozed poison and blood. My cruelty and hatred had the color of roses and smelled like chocolate. She had fox eyes and a seductive smile; desire flowed in her veins, and strangled thirst was heard in her voice.

In my nightmares, I saw not only Mina and bloody roses; sometimes there was a young man in long silk robes and a veil hiding his face. He's just a ghost; I met mine years ago, but somehow he seems more real to me night by night when he comes into my dreams without permission. He crept into them like a serpent-tempter into the Garden of Eden, slipping away at dawn like the shadow of two moons, hiding behind a door I could never open.

Unreal in my reality.

I felt the arrival of Soomin even before her long nails methodically began to knock on my door. It was as if the spell had been removed and all the sounds of the world had rained down on me in an instant. Yoru shook off her sleep and whirled around at the front door, waiting for an unknown guest. The clatter of high heels echoed in my apartment, slipping through the cracks of the door locks, and the thick smell of ambergris and blooming jasmine at night walked ahead of her, warning every one of her approaches. If I didn’t know better, I could easily have mistaken her for Mina. That was my sister once.

The whole world was just a part of her life; she was not part of the world. To be ordinary—what a bad form!

“Sarang! Sarang, open up. I’m here.” and in fact, her long nails caught on the dark wood of my front door, causing Yoru to bristle and hiss.

I was absolutely sure they wouldn’t get along.

“Are you awfully loud? Someone told you this, Soo?” I opened the front door wide, smiling softly. “I missed you, Soomin.”

“Don’t tell me about it; I missed that pretty face.” She hugged me, which made Yoru hiss again, attracting Soo’s attention. “When did you get a cat?”

“That’s not my, Yoru cat, my neighbor from apartment 1366, that door.” I waved my hand to the far end of the corridor, where Mrs. Lee’s apartment was located. “I like her; I don’t mind having the baby stay with me sometimes.”

“I see.” There was an awkward pause between us until Soo broke it. “You want to talk about… you know what.” She was worried about this topic; I could see it from the way she shifted from foot to foot, or was it from high heels? In the light of the electric lamps, the steel studs glittered like sharpened spindles from the tale of The Sleeping Beauty.

“Not now. Better tell me about this restaurant we’re going to.” Soomin was easily distracted if you changed the topic of conversation in the direction of a subject of interest to her.

I walked out of the house, taking one last look at Yoru. The cat didn't even think about leaving my space; he was already ensconced in a pile of pillows on the sofa in the living room. If she wasn't going to leave, I wouldn't force her.

“Don’t you need to return the cat to the mistress? She looks expensive.” asked Soo

“She’s a purebred Persian cat, and no, Mrs. Lee won’t worry about it; Yoru can stay with me for weeks before she comes home. This has happened before.”

“All right, if you say so.”

I shut the front door and turned the key, permanently cutting off my escape routes. Today. I have to do this today or my resolve will wear thin, and I will once again voluntarily isolate myself in the comfort of blankets and tightly closed curtains.

"And so, the restaurant..." This was the beginning of a long story that interested no more than random passersby in a faceless crowd.

“You’re going to love this place, I promise. Everything I’ve seen on their Instagram profile is so fascinating, but you know what makes this place really attractive? It’s the owner. Eun Jung was there last week, and she couldn’t shut up about…”

For the next 30 minutes, I heard about this trending establishment. “ Angels' Share” is the most requested boutique café in the last 3 months on all search engines. A luxurious café with exquisite dishes and a magnificent concept.

But most importantly, it is, of course, divine, and Soomin, the owner, was absolutely sure of this. Hundreds of girls lined up in endless lines from dawn to dusk, hoping to see him, at least for a moment.

On your first visit, the owner of “Angels' Share” personally serves you throughout your interruption there. Your name is inscribed in the book of exclusive customers in gold ink. Their main specialty is gourmet desserts, and if you are not seduced by the angelic face of the magnificent man who runs this place, then the sweets melting on your lips will do it instantly.

Full berries of scarlet strawberries in white Belgian chocolate. Mille-feuille with fresh wild berries. The devil's food is the most chocolate of all chocolate cakes, and, of course, the angel cake has the most delicate silk cream of exotic fruits.

As Soomin told me about it, she was clearly having an emotional orgasm. Her arousal was obvious, but I could not understand what she craved more: exquisite desserts or the sweet kiss of the owner.

“I think he's a real angel,” Soo finished her rant after giving a fiery speech about the unique beauty of a man she had never met in her life.

“I'm not sure if it's all true, Soomin, but you'll be able to see for yourself when we get there. You should not trust everything they say. You're too impressionable and trusting.”

We spent the rest of the journey in peaceful silence. This is the type of silence when there are a lot of questions in the air, but each side is not sure when to start asking them. I know she wanted to ask me a lot of things, and in response, I wanted to finally share my experiences and feelings that I had been desperately hiding for the past two months. Nevertheless, each of us remained silent, as if afraid to destroy fragile comfort with uncomfortable words.

When the car stopped, Soomin smiled approvingly at me, as if to say, “Go ahead, my girl!” She was good at it because she was also a cheerleader like Mina.

“Angels' Share” was impressive at first sight, and not only because of the long line of girls lined up in a perfect line and dressed in intricate clothes like collectible dolls on the shelf.

A myriad of flowers, lace, and feathers, pastel shades, and delicate ruffles—all of them looked like animated sugar fantasies. Their cheeks were dusted with pink blush, and their inflated lips were accentuated by a thick layer of transparent sticky gloss with a fine sprinkle of glitter.

Perfectly well-groomed hair is arranged in children’s cute curls or intricate hairstyles with hundreds of sparkling hairpins and velvet bows. The variety of their images was amazing, as was the height of their heels. This place was definitely something special if the girls were willing to sacrifice their comfort for a couple of desserts.

Or it wasn’t about desserts.

At such moments, I especially understood how much we needed someone else's approval. The list of items seems endless: he likes cute girls, girls with an athletic figure, pale skin, and big eyes; she should not be boring; my friends like her; she has long legs and a thin waist; and she is a certain height. I wonder if he'll use a ruler to measure me. Big boobs or a nice ass—which turns him on more? What will our first date be like? That's right; should I call him Oppa or not? Tell me what you want, and I will fulfill whatever you want. I will fulfill every one of your fantasies. Tell me about your desires.

Seduce me. Surprise me. Love me!

I don’t want to live like this. I want to be who I really am, with all my flaws and imperfections. I want to be sharp and rude; I want to be cruel and honest; I want to look as I want, without colorful tinsel and layers of makeup, with cellulite, stretch marks, and a little overweight. That may be so, but it will be me. Just me. 

The voice of Soomin ripped me out of my mind.

“I told you so,” said Soo smugly, purposefully heading for the entrance, circumventing a string of discharged girls. She was a lioness on a hunt, while they were stranded in colorful piles like scared rabbits.

If you do not pay attention to the girls, the exterior is fascinating. Gold, flowers, and crystal resembled the frame of a precious box. “Angels' Share” was positioned in such a way that the sun flooded it from all sides, creating around it a mysterious golden haze of sunlight and a dazzling iridescent play of crystals.

Everything was so beautiful, I won't deny it, but didn't the gingerbread house beckon the children deep into the dark forest where the wicked witch lived? Everything beautiful always has a downside, and someone knows how to mask it better than others.

While I was looking at the details, Soomin dragged me inside and was already talking to the host girl, who was checking the records for a long list of names. She also, like the girls on the street, looked like a doll. Her hair was long and shiny, tucked away from her face with an embroidered rim with Swarovski crystals, and her eyelashes were so lush that they touched her cheeks when she blinked. I would call her beautiful; she licked to perfection, which made it almost unnatural. She had a sweet, high-pitched voice and an overly friendly smile. Annoyingly friendly. 

“Please follow me; I'll show you your table. Since you have visited us for the first time, Mr. Yoon will personally take care of you today. Please enjoy your stay at “Angels' Share.”

YooA—that was the name of this girl—led us up the spiral staircase to the second floor. It seemed that everything around was carved from pale golden marble, with the addition of luxurious interior items and thousands of flowers—or, to be more precise, thousands of roses. Snow-white, cream, pastel pink, and soft peach—the whole space breathed rose buds that stood in tall transparent vases.

The sight took my breath away, and I was inwardly tense. It's okay; it's just a café, not Mina's apartment. You need to relax and not start panicking; it will not benefit anyone.

As if sensing my growing panic, Soomin squeezed my palm.

“Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Yes, it’s all right; there are too many roses for my taste; you know, it brings back memories.” I smiled tortuously in response to her words. I didn’t want to ruin her day; she was so excited and happy when we came here.

“We can leave if you are not comfortable, Sarang.” Soo still held my hand, gently walking her thumb over my palm in a comforting circular motion. “If you want to go somewhere else, this is fine. I can always come back here later.”

“No!” came out too loud. “No, I’m fine. I can’t wait to try their chocolate fondant. You know I’m here only for chocolate.” She said the last part with me in one voice.

YooA showed us our table, although it was more like a small loggia separated by airy chiffon tulle and pearl threads from the common room. I could easily fall in love with this place if not for the languid, enveloping smell of roses and the beauty of their lush, perfect buds.

“Do you think the rumors are true, and we'll see an angel appearance today?” Soomin leaned across the table to talk about the owner, not so obviously?

“I think you'll find out about it now, anyway.” I couldn't finish my thoughts, interrupted by Soo's enthusiastic sigh. It was a sound of undisguised admiration that she couldn't hold back, even if she tried.

The reason for her excitement was right behind me, and I had to look back a little to see what it could have been.

Of course, all the sounds of delight belonged to none other than Mr. Yoon. In part, I could understand why he was called angel-like. His beauty was painfully perfect, to the point where it became almost terrible. His face was beautiful—almost obsessively beautiful, like the face of a stone goddess on a grave. Surreal. The skin seemed to glow from the inside, like molten silver flowing through the veins. He had long hair—ashes, platinum, mother-of-pearl—everything mixed on a diamond cloth. One silvery strand fell delicately over his face.

Are the melodies of an angelic choir in the air, or does it just seem that way to me?

The more I looked at him, the more his appearance disgusted me.

I felt flawed and unsuitable, like a puzzle that did not fit the picture; my heart did not beat faster with excitement or sweet agony; I did not burn and did not desire it as it should. Between us, it was possible to draw thousands of parallels in a myriad of universes, and none of them ever intersected. Beauty is deceptive, like a serpent promising forgiveness. It’s the pain of a bittersweet injection entering our nervous tissue.

What do we know about them—angels? White-winged light bearers, without flaws and ignorant of evil and vicious desires, are submissive and faithful to their ideals and purposes. Silent watchers who look after our virtue. But there are those who are chained and silken, whose wings are torn out with bloody flesh, for they are sinners.

Their name is the fallen. Unforgiven. 

He was not an angel. He was one of them who traded the vaults of heaven for the flames and steel of the nine circles.

His presence was heavy, stifling, and sharp. Goosebumps ran through my skin as an omen of the imminent end.

I could have sworn that the second our eyes met in his eyes, the color of dark bitter chocolate, anger, and disgust thickened. So everything that is perfect collapses, falls, beats, and crumbles like the great walls of Babylon, kissing the transcendental peak of heaven. Like a Venus flytrap, his appearance was a clever disguise of vice and rot in a velvet cage of flesh, and this place is the very gingerbread house that beckons to certain death.

 “Welcome to “Angels' Share”. My name is Yoon Sung Hoon; I own this place, and today I will make sure your stay here is unforgettable.” The voice flowed like honey smoothly and gently, I could melt at this tone.

“I am Soomin, and this is Sarang; we have heard a lot about this place.” Soo’s cheeks were pink from a shy blush, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was embarrassed. This man was clearly something special, if he could make Soomin behave like a schoolgirl in love with just his presence.

His eyes rested on my figure for a second, and I wanted to shrink into a ball under this appraising gaze, as if he was trying to probe me and understand how dangerous I could be. It was only a moment, and then a smile shone again on his angelic face.

“I hope you’ve only heard nice things about us. What do you want today?” I wonder what he is used to hearing in response. I want you and your love, and I will accept everything you would not give me. Will you be my boyfriend? My husband? Will you give me eternal love? Judging by the expression on Soomin's face, this is exactly what she wanted to ask him, but she pulled herself up in time.

“I want to taste your best dessert.” As they say, kill them with your sweetness. Where has my self-sufficiency and t.” As they say, “kill them with your sweetness.” Where has my self-sufficient and confident self gone? Soo, this blushing mess was nothing like hers.

“Of course, only the best is for you. And what do you want?” All his attention was now drawn to me, and I had no pleasure. Yoon Sung Hoon is clearly not used to girls not falling at his feet like moths hitting the glass. Our dislike was mutual. Our dislike was mutual. “What do you want, Sarang? I would recommend one of our most special desserts: a white chocolate soufflé with candied scarlet roses.” Sung Hoon was smiling, but not at all benevolent; there was something mocking in the exquisite curve of his lips, as if he were challenging me: “Come on, try me.”

Roses. Those damn roses again. It always came down to these flowers. Were they my path leading away from the dark forest, or would they lead me straight to the crystal coffin in the tallest tower of the castle?

Instead of politely refusing, as a true lady should, I have given a crude, hoarse, and utterly evil speech:

“I hate roses.”

For me, flowers are as beautiful as the pain of a broken heart. You can call me a heartbreaker. What will your heart taste like? I'm so eager to try it. 

“My apologies.” Sung Hoon bowed his head, hiding his gaze in the lace of fluttering eyelashes and platinum bangs. With this simple action, Soomin once again made a barely audible, enthusiastic sound. “In this case, I offer you our signature chocolate fondant with raspberry jam and glass caramel glaze. Our clients say that he has a heavenly taste, so celestial that he can be sinful.”

Sung Hoon—there was something about him that disgusted me. His way of speaking, his appearance, his behavior—in general, every detail of it The most beautiful apple on the branch will always be wormy. I couldn't understand how he could charm girls in a split second, without any effort, as if it were in his blood—to cause desire and awe.

During our short conversation, Soo did not look at me once, inseparably studying every detail of the angelic man. If I make an incision in his skin, will the gold pour as befits angels, or will it be the viscous and black acid that Pandora once shed from her eyes?

I didn’t like it here. I didn’t like Yoon Sung Hoon, and he probably didn’t like me. How was I in his eyes—insignificant, puny, ordinary? Our dislike was mutual but totally unfounded; I just knew I didn’t want to be in the same space with him. I can’t breathe.

Guests always leave after dessert. I didn't want to linger, so I agreed to fondant. “Okay, I'll take fondant and cappuccino.” I looked at Soomin again; her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, judging by the bitten lower lip and flushed cheeks. “And matcha latte, please.”

“Of course, ladies…” With this phrase, he finally left us, and I sighed deeply.

“I think I'm in love, Sarang.” Apparently, with his passing, Soo’s brain has resumed active activity. “He absolutely justifies all the rumors about him.”

“Yeah, I can agree with that; he’s definitely something very special.”

After Sung Hoon served desserts and another 10 minutes of heated discussion of his appearance, our conversation took its normal course. It’s like ping-pong; the rules are very simple: move from one question to another, follow the theme, and don’t miss your turn. “How's the work?” “Everything is fine.” “How’s your boyfriend?” “You remember I told you we broke up?” “What have you been doing lately?” “Too much to do; I can’t remember, but recently I came back from Japan”, “Did you like it there?” “Great seats and great cuisine.” “How do you feel, Sarang?” Say it again; I didn’t hear you.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” Once again, you speak unclearly.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” It's so loud here, I can't hear you.

“Sarang?!” Can I skip my turn? I’m tired of this game.

I took a deep, slow breath.

“What do you want me to say, Soo? Something that will calm you down or something that should comfort me? ”

“Truth, Sarang. I want to hear the truth from you.” Soomin looked at me so carefully that it seemed as though she was looking straight into my soul.

My mind moved from one thought to another, not knowing what it would focus on. Truth. What is it like, this truth? She is like a beautiful, spiritually disheveled monster with a lesbian couple of black widows in an aquarium; she exists in an endless eternity of joyful decadence and an ecstatic nightmare.

It’s no big deal to tell someone the truth, but are you ready to see your own reflection in someone else’s eyes? They say alcohol is a liquid truth, but I think it's nothing more than a road strewn with bread crumbs, straight into a dense, dark forest. The more you drink, the deeper you go. Sometimes, through the intricately woven stems of condemnation and bitterness, subtle rays of understanding break through, like the light shed by the dual face of the moon. But this happens so rarely that the eyes themselves become accustomed to the surrounding darkness.

I’m still afraid of the dark and, therefore, of the truth. Now I’m sure I’m allergic to the world.

When I looked at the café, I noticed that there were many more people. Bunny girls with colorful barrettes occupied small transparent tables filled with all sorts of desserts; others, similar to porcelain dolls, put their palms to their cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, and laughed loudly, sitting in the same loggias as ours. The sounds of clicks from selfies and aesthetic Instagram photos did not subside for a second, as did the high play of voices merging with soft background music.

This probably wasn’t the best place for such a serious conversation, but was it ever the perfect place to have a heart-to-heart?

“Honestly, I don't know. Really?” I began, stirring the thick, fragrant foam from the cappuccino. It tasted like a first kiss—a little bitter, a little sweet—something that I would like to repeat again and again. “Secrets, secrets, and more secrets—everywhere I look, no matter what I ask, they only get bigger. Everything is as usual: Mina died, and the world is still spinning around her. Remember, I told you that they still send roses? I can say that soon the cemetery will start selling bouquets because there is simply nowhere to put them. Every day there are fresh flowers on the grave.” Maybe I sounded a little petty and annoyed, but I didn't care. “I may not seem like the best person on this planet, but sometimes I feel absolutely happy that I finally managed to bury her in the ground.”  Yes, this is exactly the right moment; you are not mistaken. That was my truth, like salt and pepper, like ashes, like burned dreams.

Soomin shook her head negatively.

“You shouldn't talk about yourself like that, Sarang; you're not a bad person, and we both know it; everyone around you knows it; and even that bastard JiHo knows it. You have gone through a lot, and if I were you, I would have gone crazy long ago, but look at yourself: you are here with me, in the noise of the metropolis, and you have your whole life ahead of you.” She put her hand on top of mine, and the warmth of her body penetrated mine. “Mina was who she was, and neither you nor me nor anyone else could change her. So don't let her ghost poison your life. I'm not a fan of this entire Nancy Drew thing, but I won't dissuade you. If you want my help, I'm on board.”

I laughed bitterly, taking a sip of the coffee that had already cooled. There was something special about it—sweet, ice-cold coffee, like long-cooled love.

“Yeah, you’re right; she was who she was, but I guess we were wrong about that because those flowers broke her in half. In fact, that’s the whole point of the question: where did the roses come from? She was interested in nothing but flowers and some strange prayers. She frightened me. You know, at first it looked like another love of hers; everything was as usual—she talked incessantly about flowers and admired them, but the more roses they sent us, the less she was interested in the rest of the world. Mina withered and languished while the roses bloomed. I've never seen anyone come to our house or meet someone. Nothing, just roses—hundreds of roses. You just can't imagine how many there were.”

“You know, I don’t really want to imagine it. Okay, let’s say you find something in her files. What’s next? You really need this? Maybe we should just let go, you know, scatter the ashes to the wind.” Breaking off a slice of angel cake, Soo mooed in satisfaction as the dessert was in her mouth. “Mmm, I love sweets. Who handled her legal affairs? If this is one of the free lawyers, we should hurry; the queues in these cantors are worse than here.”

“No, no, we're not going to a free advocacy team. Wait a minute.” I pulled out of my purse a small card from a thick black cardboard and handed it to Soomin. Transparent gloss on a soft matt surface looked refined and very expensive, just like the business card itself. “Silver & Black LTD” was the name of the law firm that handled Mina’s affairs.

“You’re kidding me!” She exclaimed, almost burying her face in her business card. “That’s “Silver and Black.” How did she manage to work with them? They’re one of the most elite law practitioners in all of Seoul, and I’d say across Asia. Their lawyers are real sharks in their cases; for the existence of their practice, they have not lost a single case, and the bills for their services are simply cosmic. How does she have so much money? Sarang, did you inherit her sugar daddy too? If that's the case, ask for more; you're much more expensive than a cheerleader, and nerds are always sexier and more desirable.”

“Stop saying that like I’m a whore. I don’t know where she got the money, but are their services so expensive?” My surprise was obvious. Our family was not poor, but we were not rich; we occupied that golden layer in the class hierarchy where we could just live without any worries about tomorrow. Mina and I were well provided for, but judging by Soomin’s reaction, “Silver and Black” could afford only filthy rich and influential people.

“If I were to be offered the opportunity to trade my virginity for cooperation with them, I would have done it without hesitation. Are you sure we have an appointment with them?”

“Soomin!” Frankness was always such a simple thing for her that I felt awkward at such moments. “Of course, I called them yesterday to confirm the details.”

“What? The cult of virginity is overrated anyway, but now I'm much more interested in it.”

“Let me think, more amazing men?” “How did you guess?” Soo smiled sweetly, shoving another piece of dessert into her mouth. I snorted; I couldn’t help it. "Hey, don’t laugh! You should also consider new options, since you and JiHo have broken up. Listen to me, little Sarang, nothing will warm your bed better than a hot big boy."

"Ew, Soomin." She just laughed back.

[dyn4mightz]

"AFO & Overhaul were evil for no reason!"

A lazy psychoanalysis, because I hate hearing the generalization of This and That character had no reason to be evil.

Warning: Spoilers

AFO: Greed and helplessness

The nature of a person's core personality is heavily influenced by their quirk— refer to Toga Himiko (obsessive), Bakugo Kastuki (explosive), Mirio (Optimistic), Dabi (Passion), Shoto (Integration of extreme).

OP: Wriggle eyebrows at the last part

AFO's power is all consuming, overwhelming and greedy. Which explains why that mf tortures his twin brother even in the uterus. He was born on the streets and this went unchecked, uncontrollable. How was it supposed to be? He wasn't even supposed to have a quirk. Heck, no one even had quirks before him.

You know how a pregnant mother's habits, diet and environment would influence a child? If a mother is a drug addict or an alcoholic, her child would have a disorder of some sort. This is a real-life example:

Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD) & Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome (NAS)

AFO's mother was a prostitute on the streets and that alone was consistent abuse and trauma. But what led her to be forced on the streets? What happened? Where's her family? And then there's this case of epigenetics. I'm not saying the mama was an alcoholic or a drug addict, I'm meant to question you so you'd question yourself: What do you think happened to the mother?

It was just in his nature to be fueled by greed and his environment fed it's insatiable need for power— because powerlessness meant helplessness, and helplessness is a weakness.

"But Bakugo is explosive yet he still chose heroic path!"

Because of the environment he was raised in, despite his mother's volatility and ideals, his father's passivity (and attention to detail— he works in the fashion industry, doesn't he?) and upbringing. He had strong principles and conviction. Not to mention.. he had a role model: All Might.

All of this also explains his high pride despite unstable self esteem and his tendency to push down the weak.

OVERHAUL: Fear of Imperfection and uncertainty

His quirk... dissembling and assembling. He destroys and rebuilds. It's like a kid who is unhappy with how someone built a sandcastle.. NO, THIS IS NOT CORRECT! and then he rebuilds it as he wishes, correctly.

False sense of control...assuming is only way of building is correct, his only order is correct.

His environment worsened this.

Overhaul was already obsessed with power and control (read: fear of helplessness and uncertainty) by nature, he was abandoned without a stable parental/nurturing figure. This made his early childhood terrifyingly unpredictable as a child and his defense mechanism was to become hyper logical, detached with heavy intellectualization of himself and the world.

Sure, the Yakuza's head found him but he found him at the age when he already developed these defense and coping mechanisms.

If anything, the rigid and strict structure of the Yakuza family only enforced his way of thinking. (And his fear of abandonment. Like a stray cat constantly afraid of being picked up one random day and abandoned on the streets again. He likely chased after approval, always afraid)

It was evident he failed to see the nuances in humanity, this was encouraged in one of the sentences thrown to him when all he desired was for validation from his only parental figure:

"Follow our rules, or leave."

Not only that he was an obsessive kid, he was also an obsessive kid afraid of abandonment at every turn. And that statement alone instills an "All or Nothing" mindset, which explains his tendency to Idealize and Devalue. Black and white thinking is a coping mechanism for extreme stress, a way for the brain to compartmentalize emotions to make it digestible. Unfortunately, this also leads to extremes and obsession.

Overhaul has extreme ideologies that obsessed over his father figure.

His obsessive, controlling nature went unchecked with absolute power in his hands— that was what made him the man he was.

CONCLUSION:

Emotional repression and daddy issues are the actual villain in MHA

refer to my previous psychoanalisis...the point of MHA is to figure out how to stop abuse and how to even prevent it from happening in the first place. I've spot abuse here and how it happened... the way you've figured out how Shigaraki and Dabi could've been saved, at which point could AFO and Overhaul be "saved" from their nature?

[jeremy-ken-anderson]

Edith Snaps

"You couldn't possibly be claiming I am the only one who had access to these documents, could you? Rhynon was the original writer, and other staff use the same office space. And mother, Rhyse, and I all looked at this document together."

Duke Rudwick twitched in irritation. "Are you trying to put the blame on our family and staff? Edith Rigelhof."

Edith slapped the sheaf of papers loudly on the couch next to her. "Rudwick. There is nobody named Edith Rigelhof living in this household. Indeed, as of my wedding it is possible there is nobody named Edith Rigelhof in the entire world."

"What manner of foolish technicality are-"

"My name is Edith Rudwick. If you're going to accuse me of a crime, the bare minimum you can do is get my name right. What is Rhyse's family name? Is she Rhyse Rudwick?"

"You are overstepping your-" Duke Rudwick began hotly, as anyone would. Rhyse was pure as fresh-fallen snow and anything that impugned her honor was naturally villainous.

"Is it overstepping my bounds to ask that I be called by the name you gave me, Father? Is it really?" He could say nothing to that. Propriety would not allow it. Edith sighed. "This is doubly frustrating. The first reason I expect is obvious to you. I am frustrated because I have been accused. I'd say 'because I've been falsely accused,' but to be honest I doubt I'd be any less frustrated with that part if I were guilty. Nobody likes an accusation, guilty or innocent. But the other frustration is only happening because I am innocent."

"What are you going on about now?"

"You say you proved my guilt by putting false information into the documents I was handling and watching Count Rigelhof respond to information he shouldn't have had. But you didn't prove my guilt. What you proved is that there is a Rigelhof spy present. Now imagine a fantastical world in which I'm actually innocent of this crime. Please. Just for a moment. What would be the other frustration nagging at my mind?"

To his credit, Edith's husband spoke up. "You think the real culprit will escape."

Edith nodded. "Honestly this entire accusation seems terribly wasteful on your part. What do you gain?" She sighed. "Well. I suppose if you convict me you can use my alleged crimes to threaten Count Rigelhof..."

At this, Duke Rudwick flinched again. Edith didn't believe he'd planned it, but she could see him considering the risks anew. If things went wrong with the accusation, it might appear he'd forged the charges for political gain. As a family obsessed with honor the Rudwicks couldn't be seen flirting with impropriety.

"Still, it seems like you could have gained much more by making Count Rigelhof continue dancing to your tune awhile. All you had to do was keep the spy in the dark...HA."

Her husband's face was a mask of genuine concern, so Edith wondered if the smile at her realization looked unhinged to him. She felt a little unhinged; weirdly ecstatic.

"You can! Because I'm innocent, you can! As long as Rhynon here is not the spy - and I don't know of any reason he would be - Count Rigelhof's spy doesn't know that the spying has been discovered! We put me under house arrest, on any charge but spying. I don't care about some temporary claim. Say I was violent with Rhyse if you must. Or I have some contagious disease! Only Rhynon or my doting husband delivering me meals outside my door a few times a day, and even then with gloves and a mask. Quarantine would be a good enough reason not to allow the maids near me. Then you repeat the trick! Let slip some important product it's imperative the Rudwicks be able to purchase enough of, in the ledgers you're having to work without my help. Count Rigelhof will learn of it through his actual spy. And he'll act on it immediately. I can't imagine him thinking he has an advantage and then not acting on it. He's kind of stupid that way."

Duke Rudwick scoffed. "You expect us to believe you would betray your own family?"

Edith smiled at him. It was sad and warm all at once. "As I have said, I am Edith Rudwick. You are my family. So, no. I won't."

[fukuokanodivision]

Yuno’s Thoughts On Katsushika Division

Akihisa Mashiro

”The Reaper, also known as Akihisa Mashiro. Charged for mainly acts of terrorism, instead gets bailed out by Chuohku for lousy deal off death row. Kill count higher than teammates combined, whether aside from ‘Cinder’ or not is unconfirmed. I’ve definitely seen him kicking around during my Chuohku days, though I can’t remember the details…Shall his stoic personality, or better yet, his rap skills as Death Row Block’s leader showcase his true self? We can only find out from here…”

Touya Kisaragi

“Sweetheart Killer, also known as Touya Kisaragi. Charged for multiple acts of both violence and murder, though much like leader Mashiro, is surprisingly let off from lousy deal put into order by Chuohku. Kill count is unknown, though can be estimated to a large number at most. Come to think of it…I know pretty little about Kisaragi, though Mai noticed his harsh desire towards being loved…Maybe his obsession and role as Death Row Blocks 2nd member will help him? Or…Even deceive him?”

Rintaro Himura

“High Rise Bomber, also known as Rintaro Himura. Charged for acts of arson and possible robbery, much like teammates leader Mashiro and fellow member Kisaragi, is also let off by lousy deal with Chuohku. Kill count is also unknown, however is estimated to be similar to Kisaragi. Eko will have a hard time dealing with him, guess his little monitor surprise worked successfully, hm? His cold and fiery demeanour might play into his rap abilities, so Death Row Block is a powerful team to watch out for…”

Akari Himura

“Akari Himura, Himura Rintaro’s younger half sister. How do I say this in a…non threatening way…? She is a massive criminal and heavy threat. From what Eko’s observed, it appears she managed to eavesdrop on our little chat after Rintaro received his gift? Such a naughty move. ‘Dealing with a few pests?’ Seems like we OverDrive have a bounty on our heads~! The shadows cannot hide us for much longer, Cinder is not the only one who is coming for our blood. Look at how far I’ve come…I might not be able to outright beat her, however…Having some well deserved fun works as well~!”

Death Row Block

“Katsushika Division, 4 criminals who will only cause chaos if Chuohku doesn’t screw in their loose ends. You know…I think my fathers surely heard of them outside the DRB. When he was being falsely convicted, that had to be the same time the deal between the 3 and Chuohku was made. Though he only caught a glimpse…It‘s no secret they are practically the worst criminals in the DRB currently. DRB or not, they’ll probably have fun facing the other teams while we patiently wait until our time comes. That time? Well…Let’s just say I’ll be having fun~.”

[queerfables]

911 season 4 liveblog part 4x07 through to the end

4x07

Ok I'm obsessed with this "mother plague" band I want to go to all their shows and maybe hook up with them

Oh boy Buck is not having a good date. Come on lady, be nice. It's not like Buck held you at gunpoint to get you to the table. If you're having a bad time just go home.

Ok seriously you cannot order dessert on a date where you're clearly having a bad time and then continue to be bitchy to the person you're there with. Just go home!

LMFAO THEY'RE NEIGHBOURS

Hen saying "Have either of you ever seen me in a dress?" and the random guy chiming in with "I think you'd look lovely in a dress" lmfao not the correct response my dude

Buck and Eddie facing off against a turkey together amazing

I'm enjoying Michael's Rear Window arc

Crying with laughter. I love that when Athena asks Bobby to check on Michael he immediately gets sucked into Michael's nonsense

Bobby is TERRIBLE at undercover operating

"Michael did help me break into a bank vault once" I really love their team ups

Oh my god Michael just snuck into the guy's house??

Holy fuck is he stealing organs??

Oh this is a nice scene with Hen and her mum

LMFAO LMFAO Buck's bad date is dating Albert now that's hilarious

4x08

Crying with laughter over the bitingly false cheer in this flight attendant's voice as she says "you betcha". Poor friend she's having a terrible time.

Why is everyone acting like she specifically is antagonising them on purpose

Honestly her breakdown is totally warranted everyone on that plane was terrible. No jury would convict her.

Oh the cork embedded in the guy's neck had me gasp out loud at the screen love when this show gets me like that

Aw Buck babysitting Christopher makes me :pleading-eyes:

Buck is such a family guy ugh it's soft. it's been super obvious ever since he met Christopher that he is someone who needs to be around kids and one day have his own (and that he adores Christopher in particular ofc). He and Eddie are so alike. This isn't the only way but it's definitely one that stands out to me, because of course Eddie just completely lights up around his kid.

Man, I rode out the worst of the pandemic in one of the most isolated cities in the world (by total coincidence, we had moved there the year before it hit) so we weren't hit too hard by it. But this season is really driving home how lucky I got.

Omg Taylor and Buck gossiping about Buck's love life is really funny. Maybe they'll hook up again but I would love if she just hung around as his bitchy ex who gets drunk with him and dunks on all his life choices

Chanting for the guy to jump? Classy.

"I've met the people you work with. Your life is nothing but meaningful relationships." Only Taylor could make that sound like an insult. I love her.

Oh Eddie. I know that conversation didn't go the way you hoped but the fact that your kid is able to say the words "I'm mad at you" and walk off to get some space speaks volumes about what an excellent parent you are. It's gonna be ok.

Okay when Taylor knocked on the door I thought she only showed up so she could watch the train wreck but actually she had no idea what she was walking into and in revenge she intends to BE the train wreck? That's hilarious.

oh no Taylor you're showing human emotions and vulnerability stop that immediately before I fall in love with you

Oh my god I'm gonna cry, Eddie panicking over Christopher going missing, answering the call from Buck in a total freak out, but it's all OK and Buck is calling because when Christopher is feeling upset and alone and mad at his dad, the person he trusts to go to is Buck? Gosh that's a lot T_T

Feeling very 🥺 about Taylor & Buck friendship

Oh no, Hen and Karen, that is super rough news. I'm sorry, that aspect of fostering must be so rough.

4x09

Omg this is so familiar. My family had pretty much the same experience when our little one was born. "Today's the day" I'm sorry Maddie, today is not the day.

Oh my god I hate seeing kids in distress this car driving the wrong way down the highway is tough

Oh jeeze this accident is pushing everyone's buttons

Chimney and Maddie are so cute

Oh no Albert!!

He better not die I'll be big mad

Then again if he's anything like his brother he'll be fine

Their music choice is not filling me with confidence

Oh thank God

Oh that is a beautiful baby

Oh Hen. "Nia's damn near crying her eyes out and you act like it happens every day" in fairness, she's a toddler, it probably does happen every day. Put yourself in her mother's shoes for a moment. You experienced first hand the fear of losing your kid, this mother actually experienced it. You don't know what she went through that she had her kid taken and you don't know what she's done to get back to a place where she can look after her again.

"You are nothing like that woman" "I am exactly like that woman" Yeah, he is, and as terrible as the accident she caused is, she's still a person just like Bobby is.

Wow this show really can do Themes when it wants to

4x10

Oh, ouch. I know I was tough on Hen for being angry and trying to fight their foster kid leaving, but I also have a lot of empathy. This sucks, and I'm really sad for their son too.

Oh oof I'm crying

This is too sad

Oh now I'm sad about Hen being happy for Chimney even though she's going through something so painful

Oh that baby is soooo tiny

Ugh I love Ann

Oh no Chimney you put your foot in it a bit there

Athena you really need to learn to react to your kids doing things you don't like with a little more chill

Especially if you want them to tell you things and take your advice and such

This is such an emotional episode

Ugh Chimney calling Ann "Grandma"

Oh no Denny is suuuuch a good kid T_T

A big part of the reason I think this show is aimed at people in a slightly older demographic is that every time they do an episode about kids and parenthood it just completely turns on the waterworks for me lol. and I don't think it would have affected me this way before I was a parent but now that I am, it's just really clear that the people making this show know what they're talking about.

4x11

Aw Athena you're learning! That was a great response to May asking for more independence

Josh backstory! I'm so happy

And Sue backstory too!!

This scene between Hen and Athena about their kids and the missing girl and May wanting to move out is a really lovely scene, I have missed Hen and Athena's interactions.

Also it passes both the Bechdel test and several related tests about race, and I appreciate that that isn't even particularly noteworthy for the show. The only reason I thought about it was because I was trying to figure out how to describe the scene and when I laid it out like "the one where Hen and Athena talk about May" it made me smile

Another thing I like about this show is that it's one of the only shows filmed during the pandemic where full scenes are conducted with masks being worn. Other shows I've seen during that time usually gestured to the use of masks but had the characters take them off as soon as they started talking.

Lmfao love Athena showing up like "don't even think about it Buck"

Aaaah Josh just saved their lives!! Listen I don't find this scenario completely plausible but it's so cool it doesn't matter. Heck yeah I'll suspend my disbelief for this.

I really love Josh. He reminds me of a very old friend of mine whose name was actually also Josh

4x12

Message in a bottle is a fun premise

Lmfao Buck is so sad about missing out on the helicopter

Is ok Buck, my kid loves helicopters too

LOL at this guy whose foot is three times the size it should be being like "no no I can tough it out"

Are Taylor and Buck gonna go looking for this treasure together? Amazing

I love the dispatch betting pool

OMG EDDIE WANTS TO TEAM UP TOO THAT'S SO CUTE

I love Taylor so much (though I stand by my initial impression that she is a terrible person) I'm keen for some Buck/Eddie/Taylor screentime

Omg now a Hen and Chimney team up too? I'm so into this

Oh we are so getting a Bobby and Athena team up too

Come on Athena have some fun

Otherwise he's gonna go team up with Michael and you'll have to arrest them both

LMFAO HE WAS NEVER ACTUALLY DEAD THAT'S GREAT

This guy is an ass it's hilarious

Heeee everyone showing up at the same place to find the treasure, delightful

HEN'S EXPLANATION FOR HOW THEY FOUND IT IS THE BEST ONE

"My wife wrote an algorithm that detects changes in satellite images"

Big "what like it's hard" energy

"What, the unnamed cameraman gets a cut?"

"I'm glad we're friends" honestly I wish Taylor and Buck really could be friends because again I think that would be a great dynamic for them

That said I do actually enjoy their relationship as a romance too

4x13

Alright, Suspicion and then Survivors, you're up! I've been informed these are good Buddie-sodes so I'm keen!

Omg they're spoofing that bride who tried to subject her guests to lie detector tests heh

Oh I am SO charmed by the fact that Bobby and Michael usually team up for family game night. Their friendship is everything to me.

Don't be douchey about allergen free food. "What's it made of, air?" If I had a gluten free cookie for every time I heard that 🙄

CARLA!! Christopher's reaction is mine

Eddie stop flirting with the lady falling through the balcony

(Tbh this supports my low-key gay!Eddie agenda. He's jumping from one woman to the next and his primary criteria seems to be whether or not they'd be a good parent to Christopher. Of course that will feature in his calculations but idk. Carla asking him to think about what he wants too was important)

This kid moves around a lot, always going to different doctors, oh jeeze this is a Munchausen by proxy case isn't it?

Either that or they're fleeing abuse or something because otherwise the first thing you want for a chronically sick kid is continuity of care

Oh Maddie is really struggling huh

I bet Bobby is someone's sponsor! I wonder why he's lying about it though

Oh no Maddie, Chimney isn't talking about you, you are a good parent you're just sick and need support

Ah, that's why he's lying about it

Holy fuck, Bobby, that is a huge wrecking ball of a statement to make.

"Who says this marriage is working" do not pull that shit without thinking it through in the middle of a fight because that is the kind of thing that's hard to take back

Oh holy SHIT

No listen I've seen a million gifs of that moment it's the first thing that put this ship on my radar I've been waiting for it forever

I did NOT expect it to manage to blindside me so completely even so!!!

Holy fuck

Ok what's next I am AMPED

4x14

Wow how have I not seen gifs of Buck dragging him to safety

Eddie's glazed "Are you hurt?" looking at his own blood all over Buck

THAT is what I'm talking about

"Are you ok, Buckley?"

Not even a little bit

Oh my god he even said it

That dead eyed "No."

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah

Woah, was Eddie the target? I guessed that maybe it was a terrorism thing. Targeting emergency workers seems like a great way to inspire panic

"No comment" ok I'm obsessed with the fact that this is Buck's first instinct when confronted with Taylor under these circumstances. I'm really glad that's not why she's there but I love that he thought it could be. Ah, my cut-throat girlfriend 🥰

"You can't go see his son looking like this" I'm really glad that Taylor is there to tell Buck sensible things like that

Oh it absolutely was targeting firefighters

Aw I'm happy Albert is doing better

Oof this is a ROUGH conversation to have with Christopher. Buck is doing a great job but I wonder if he should really have been the one to do it, only because he's so shaken up himself.

Oh no now he's crying T________T

Jesus he must have thought Eddie was dead

Oh the show is doing Themes again

"As scared as we are, it's going to be worse for the people who love us. They're the ones who have to watch us go to work and worry we might not come home."

"There's that thing people say, 'I don't know what I'd do without you' because losing someone you love is such an alien concept you don't want to imagine what it's like"

"And I was sitting in that engine thinking I was listening to you dying and I didn't need to imagine anything"

Right after Buck was violently confronted with the prospect of losing Eddie

Oof

I'm happy Bobby and Athena are finally talking about this though. They really needed to.

The fact that Buck is staying with Christopher through this T_T

Lmfao fucking Buck of course he's already halfway up the crane

Buck's gonna Buck

Oh fuck that glint of light scared the shit out of me

Man this scene between Bobby and Buck about Buck's apparent death wish was really good

Aw that's a pretty cute Taylor/Buck moment

I gotta be honest I really kind of like them

Aaaaah Eddie's ok

"Still, I think it might have been better for Christopher if I was the one who got shot" Oh Buck you're really in it now

And Eddie's face when he said that

Oh no Bobby!!

Oh I love Chimney taking over the scene since Bobby is trapped inside and can't

Athena walking through fire to save her husband is pretty romantic <3

Oh they got to see Nia again T_T what a lovely coincidence

Oh it's The Scene!!

This is the other one I've been waiting for

Oh holy fuck

yeah

Everything about that was Extremely.

Obsessed with the fact that Eddie did not tell Buck about any of this

Why the hell would you make someone your kid's godparent and not SAY something that's truly unhinged

But Eddie saying no one would fight harder for Christopher than Buck T-T and Eddie saying Buck is not expendable!!!!!!

That is like. The thing that Buck wants to hear the most. And doesn't ever fully believe.

So that is a lot

FIREFIGHTER ALBERT oh I'm emotional

[fruityyamenrunner]

All this enables us to state precisely what is wrong with Reich’s psychology. Because his concept of the mind is basically mechanical, he leaves out the most important factor: freedom. So his concept of a healthy being is, like Freud’s, limited and static.

Now in any science but psychology, this would hardly matter. When a physicist talks about horse power, it makes no difference whether he means a living horse or a machine; all that matters is how many foot-pounds per minute are involved. A materialist who regards the human body as a machine makes as good a doctor as a Plymouth Brother who regards it as the temple of the Holy Spirit. But effective psychotherapy depends basically upon the will of the patient—upon a certain determination and optimism. The psychotherapist’s most important task is to persuade the patient to start fighting back. If courage could be bought in bottles, psychotherapists would be unnecessary.

Even on the physical level, we are all aware of the importance of optimism. We all know, for example, that it is possible to stop feeling sick by making a certain kind of mental effort. It involves, first of all, thinking about something else—not brooding on the feeling of nausea; then a further effort can somehow summon vitality, and lift us beyond the sickness. The same principle applies to neurosis, even if the problem is more complex. This means that anyone who can grasp the basic principle of Janet or Frankl or Maslow—that the ‘unconscious’ regions of the mind contain enormous reserves of power—is in an admirable position for fighting off the invisible bacilli of neurosis. Conversely, anyone who accepts the major premise of Freud and Reich—that the unconscious is nothing more than a repository of dangerous repressions—has been robbed of his most powerful weapon against discouragement and defeat. For man is ultimately an evolutionary animal: that is, the only animal who seems to remain permanently unsatisfied. He struggles for security, for love, for respect and recognition; and even if he is fortunate enough to achieve them all, he is still unsatisfied. He seems to come closest to fulfilment in problem-solving; but his nature is such that he never remains satisfied with the solution of any particular problem; if he runs out of problems he will invent them. It is as if his deepest sense of purpose is geared to problem-solving—that is, to creativity. He is the only creature on earth who wants to know how the universe got here, and what man is doing in it. And this, in turn, seems to be closely connected with what goes on in his own mind; for one of the main reasons he is so obsessed by problem-solving is that when he has successfully overcome some difficult challenge, he receives a strange glimpse of unsuspected powers inside himself. And this glimpse also seems to reveal the world around him in a new light—as in some way unknown, as if his mind normally imposed a completely false familiarity on it. It is not even necessary to overcome problems to obtain the same tantalizing insight; it can happen on any spring morning or autumn afternoon.

The familiarity through which our minds force us to see things is undoubtedly necessary; it provides us with a basic stability. But our deepest hunger is for the strangeness that lies on the other side of this familiarity. And if we remain fundamentally optimistic and curious and expectant, we can keep tugging aside the curtain of familiarity and glimpsing the strangeness. Thinkers—and artists—who deaden this sense of curiosity by insisting that human life is as limited as it seems, are performing the worst kind of disservice to humanity.

Now as a human being, Reich possessed this curiosity and expectancy in abundance. This is the reason that ‘Reichians’ hold him in such high esteem. The ‘elephant’s child’ never lost his ‘satiable curtiosity’. Where sex was concerned, he was a liberator in the tradition of Blake, Whitman and Lawrence. By instinct and conviction, he was what Shaw called a ‘world betterer’. In Cosmic Superimposition he even emerges as a kind of mystic. Yet this liberator and visionary tied himself into a strait jacket of old-fashioned nineteenth-century materialism that prevented him developing his instinctive insights. And since, with German thoroughness, he connected all his ideas together into a ‘system’, it is difficult to take what is valuable and reject the rest.

[becoming-grounded]

Luke Warm

Smoking and Drinking

In my family smoking and drinking were thought to be among the most deadliest sins one could participate in; weed and dark liquor in particular. Post the crack epidemic, I now understand the sentiments and obsessive weariness. Nonetheless life’s other perverted delights recused us from public shame casted down by family elders. If you weren’t smoking or drinking, you were presumably innocent. I was presumably innocent; a self-proclaimed anomaly. And a first class citizen imported from the honorable hood of heaven. I was not like the others, let me tell it.

Truly convinced of my “otherness” I proudly welcomed my royal status; lording it over others with my witty one liners, rash judgments, and unfounded but convincing arguments. I was increasingly more preoccupied with other people’s inhibitions than my own deplorable behavior and thought life. I lived with a false sense of security as I compared apples to oranges. However, a life of faith is marked by endurance, not comparison. And my battle against sin should never start or primarily remain outside of the walls of my own heart.

The problem is that I considered sin more of a universal problem and less as an internal sore leeched on to my soul, decaying me spiritually. So anytime I confessed my sin, my underlining purpose was to be relatable, not accountable. I am attracted to character formation because it carries with it just enough guilt to appease my Christian ideology of sin and faith without truly grabbing my affections or urging me to wholeheartedly change. I have the closest proximity to my sin. Indeed I am the most affected by it, so I should be the most grieved by it.

But I have had dozens of encounters with people who were more grieved by my sin than I was. More grieved. My sin only hurt me when others knew about it. I was apathetic to poison but sensitive to exposure. I knew not what true sorrow felt like. Because I had only the tiniest glimpse of the depth of my brokenness. Blindness is not only an inability to see what lies right in front of you. Blindness is also developing amnesia the moment you’re not staring into a mirror.

Continually being confronted by sins I hadn’t brought to my Father weakened our intimacy and inflated my pride. In pride I rejected honest rebuke; and inadvertently turned away from God’s chosen and easier path to lead me back home. A road with a few pebbles and debrief; in contrast to the fog filled forest I chose to wander within. And with no conviction or desperation nudging me back home, I was astray.

How far does a dog need to stray to be considered a “stray dog”?

I say this cautiously, and with more intuition and experience than it may sound; I wish smoking and drinking were my biggest vices. Surprisingly, they are child’s play in light of the infectious disease I had been festering.

Don’t I Look Good?

Similar to a shapeshifter, I let my environment dictate my appearance. I could change at an instant, whatever “suited” the moment. Hypocrisy is fashionable. Lamentably trendy. And just like many leaders today; I only cared about how I looked. Oh the stories I could makeup. Is my face beat? Because it resembled a kaleidoscope. Deception is an art. Almost beautiful. But no one knew who I really was; Not even me.

Nothing was overt or deliberate; not my faith nor my sin. I built a lair in a cave because I loved the shade. From afar it appeared that I was saving Gotham in the dark. But heroes don’t “save the day” at night. That was a bar!

There are many reasons people say they don’t believe in God. But a professing Christian’s hypocrisy will undoubtedly consistently be among the highest rated reasons sited for people’s disbelieve in God. On a surface level at least, it is something that makes him unattractive or unappealing. Whether I like it or not, my life is an argument for what I claim to be true. And acting incongruent to what I believe, makes others believe me less. Actions have implications. But I have always been assured of a position that my actions and character didn’t attest to.

Character is a barometer of your faithfulness and a lens by which others look through to peek at your soul. I fear knowing the number of eyes that have looked through the distorted lens of my character, and witnessed my profound proclamations of faith stained by something repulsive, yet true about me.

One aspect of God’s judgment that makes me tremble is the pending conversation we are scheduled to have where He reveals the times I have made it harder for people to see Him. If someone walks away from me even more disinterested in seeing the Lord primarily due to my character; then I play a part in their spiritual blindness. I’m not responsible for it, but I am accountable for those interactions. They mean something in heaven. How differently would I act if I remembered that what I do matters in heaven?

Prayer Means I Am Hungry

Actions do matter in heaven, but so do words. Words are pulled from the belly of the brain. Most of them have been meditated on and digested for years. Prayer is a diet and all it takes is an appetite to partake in it. So when I open my mouth figuratively and physically, and pour out my heart to the Lord, I am bringing my dish to His potluck; ready to feast. How incredible is it to share that with the one who intricately deciphered what aging would look like every second of my life. If prayer is showing up to God’s dinner table if you will, then I have been grossly starved and out of practice. I have been fasting from prayer.

Whenever I think about prayerlessness in my own life, I am soothed by the excuse that it is forgetfulness, laziness even. But discovery and honesty exposes something deeper and more heart revealing. Most of the time it is a reluctant, arrogant, fight for dominance in my life. Prayerlessness is an ungrateful heart. Like a picky, self indulgent, hard headed toddler, I am refusing food. Better yet, when I choose not to pray I am refusing to eat with God. Though I am tempted to view myself as innocently being negligent to pray; the truth is that I intentionally do not do it. Hardly ever. It is a weird medium where I am always thinking about God and am keenly aware of Him often. But I do not sit at His table.  

Prayer is an opportunity to see God at work up close: Refusing to pray prevents me from learning and believing things about my Father’s work and His character.

Prayer is God’s grace to us so that we won’t feel alone. He beckons us to use it more. When you pray, it is almost like you’re sitting in heaven, because Jesus is present. Who wouldn’t want to sit in heaven? But if I am doing nothing to reduce distance, then I am actively pursuing distance from heaven. It sounds stupid because it is.

And I labor this point because a Holy Spirit-Filled relationship with Jesus has passion and rhythm. Prayerlessness stagnates and restricts our relationship to a shallow unamusing story. The lack of prayer makes my life spiritually uninteresting and awkward. Uninteresting and awkward because I begin to live for someone I know nothing about. What good is it to be incredibly brilliant, incredibly talented, and not be incredibly prayerful?

Like a gun without bullets is useless, so is a believer’s life without prayer. A vessel meant for combat and resolution, but no power to carry any part of the mission out. It is bullets that do the real damage. Prayer has the same nature of reinforcement. You’d consider a gun to be empty if it is missing bullets. A believer’s life is empty without prayer. I spent years mostly empty because of a less than casual prayer life.

My Father Is Watching Me

Yet, even when I am not, God is still present. Sometimes the moment I acknowledge that my son hurt himself, he joyously resumes playing; usually with more excitement than he had before he hurt himself. In those moments the problem isn’t the pain. The problem is that he doesn’t realize I am watching him; even if the whole time I am looking right at him. He completely shifts his focus toward how he feels. At which point he starts to feel alone in his pain because he forgets that I care about how he feels and his hurt, hurts me too. This is despair. When we feel like our Father has disappeared.

It rarely feels like it, but the engineer of fatherhood is focused on me. And He isn’t waiting by watching with disapproval. He’s waiting for me to look back at Him. He sits with anticipation: Waiting for us to catch one another in a mesmerized gaze, smiling. He looks at me with the face and demeanor of a concerned and loving father. He will not stop watching and waiting for me because I am His son and He wants me to see that He sees me.

Mature Believer

I used to think that a mature believer was someone who eloquently paraded around theological discussion with others and with God. Contrary to worldly interpretations of success, a mature believer is someone who is burdened and continually brings those burdens to God for rest. Not out of shame but out of reliance, out of surrender, out of weakness. Imagine that. In the Kingdom of God weakness is the greatest form of human strength.

So, my attitude and posture while entering prayer cannot only be “Help me do better”. My attitude and posture while entering prayer must also be, “I need more grace”.

Habits and practices while good and many times God honoring pursuits; in and of themselves are proven folly if they are not the outpouring of a life submitted to God— Where God is the goal.

It is more holy to admit that even my conscious choices to fight to be Godly are inadequate to clean myself up. My greatest boast is that I know God and He knows me. My greatest boast is my neediness for my creator. My greatest boast is my frailty, my vulnerability, my inability and my weakness. This does not sound sexy, eloquent, or manly. But it is necessary if I want to be close to the Lord. Because intimacy is formed in dependence. This is not orienting myself around shame. This is a healthy understanding of what it truly means to follow the Lord. This points to the blessings and the promises that God is sure to fulfill at the end of the rainbow of following the Lord. The Gold is God and I want my pot of Gold. So my hope is that The Almighty continues to not only form my character in my fight against sin but also gives me the grace to experience more of Him. Then and only then will I be strengthened to endure through suffering that brings him glory.

My life’s venture is to turn away from living vaguely in the grey with less surety about where my allegiance lies moment to moment. Today I live with more honest contemplation. I am hot and soothing to the soul. I am planted by a refreshingly cool stream of water; a stream that carries with it components of life giving agents and nutrients. I am grounded and girded by wisdom. I am carefully cemented in the faith by the power that rolled the stone away on the third day. I am bearing fruit like a tortoise who is in it for the long haul; sure to reach to the eventual end. I am un-phased by another’s race. Because I am being drawn toward to resemble Jesus, my ultimate example.

Today my luke warm lifestyle is layered in grace. And I am gradually becoming fruitful the more I lay at the feet of my Father and Lord like Martha’s sister. Because at His feet, He has my ear.

[riearchivistfornow]

Does It Really Matter?

Teens Xcite 2014.01.18

Does It Really Matter?

Mark 7:1-15, 17-23 NIV

The Pharisees and some of the teachers of the law who had come from Jerusalem gathered around Jesus and saw some of his disciples eating food with hands that were defiled, that is, unwashed. (The Pharisees and all the Jews do not eat unless they give their hands a ceremonial washing, holding to the tradition of the elders. When they come from the marketplace they do not eat unless they wash. And they observe many other traditions, such as the washing of cups, pitchers and kettles. ) So the Pharisees and teachers of the law asked Jesus, “Why don’t your disciples live according to the tradition of the elders instead of eating their food with defiled hands?” He replied, “Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you hypocrites; as it is written: “ ‘These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are merely human rules.’ You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.” And he continued, “You have a fine way of setting aside the commands of God in order to observe your own traditions! For Moses said, ‘Honor your father and mother,’ and, ‘Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death.’ But you say that if anyone declares that what might have been used to help their father or mother is Corban (that is, devoted to God)— then you no longer let them do anything for their father or mother. Thus you nullify the word of God by your tradition that you have handed down. And you do many things like that.” Again Jesus called the crowd to him and said, “Listen to me, everyone, and understand this. Nothing outside a person can defile them by going into them. Rather, it is what comes out of a person that defiles them. ” After he had left the crowd and entered the house, his disciples asked him about this parable. “Are you so dull?” he asked. “Don’t you see that nothing that enters a person from the outside can defile them? For it doesn’t go into their heart but into their stomach, and then out of the body.” (In saying this, Jesus declared all foods clean.) He went on: “What comes out of a person is what defiles them. For it is from within, out of a person’s heart, that evil thoughts come—sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malice, deceit, lewdness, envy, slander, arrogance and folly. All these evils come from inside and defile a person.”

The pharisees were jealous of Jesus' popularity and power. Jesus had exposed the pharisees' hypocriticy and falsehood. Some of us are doing the "christian thing" on the outside, but some of us are just dull and withered on the inside. It matters to God if you are a true christian. God is our loving heavenly father. The always rules and regulations are given to us so that we can enjoy the feeedom of the relationship that we have with him.

1) God is not pleased with those of us who practice an outwardly religion but are inwardly corrupt. The pharisees were obsessed with the outside practice and religion, but their hearts were darkened and hard.

We must set aside an offering for God. However, we also must set aside money to set aside money for your parents. Some times we also do the same as the pharisees, some times we do things to please others, to make ourselves look good and some times have hearts that are far away from God. We can have an outward form of relationship with him but have a corrupted hearts.

2) God is looking for outward faith that comes with an inward conviction. If your heart is unclean, then the outward religion is useless.

Psalm 24:3-5 NIV

Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord ? Who may stand in his holy place? The one who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not trust in an idol or swear by a false god. They will receive blessing from the Lord and vindication from God their Savior.

Our hands need to be clean, but more importantly, we have to have a pure heart.

James 1:26-27 NIV

Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless. Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

If you are using profanities, then your faith is useless. Do you want to get right on the inside and show it on the outside?

[eva-knits12]

YES! America's democracy is at stake. Trump has Project 2025 in play, it's written, and if the worst happens, Project 2025 replaces the US Constitution and gives Trump unlimited power! Our democracy will be gone! He will have free reign, pardon himself, and replace every branch of US government, both local and federal with MAGA loyalists. This is already starting to happen, and it started with him putting Brett Kavanaugh, Amy Cohen Barrett and Lou Dobbs on the Supreme Court to overturn Roe V. Wade and he took all the credit. He already has someone slated to be the US Attorney General.

We need to vote the Trash out, and put Trump in jail. He's a convicted felon.

Kamala Harris is predicted to win, and the early voting numbers are already starting to be in her favor. Remember, those ballots are already counted, and your absentee ballot won't be counted until election day. So, vote early! Vote like democracy and your rights depend on it!

Trump hates Kamala, it's because he's a fucking misogynist. Kamala has a law degree, has worked in all three branches of government, and made Brett Kavenaugh cry while holding her own, and ripping him to shreds. Kamala passed the bar on the second try. Trump being Trump is laser focused on her one failure. But big deal! Lots of lawyers pass the bar on the second try, and that's seems to be the average all across the board. Let's see Trump try to pass the bar. Let's see him pass a basic business school exam!

Kamala didn't file for bankruptcy multiple times, she's NOT a racist-she's of Jamaican and East Asian descent. Trump is a racist, and he's also laser focused on her resume, where she didn't put her job at McDonald's when she was younger, and in college. Lots of high school and college students work summer jobs and seasonal jobs to earn some money for school and for spending. It triggered him so much, he actually had to troll her, and he didn't even wear PPE outside of an apron. Even Kamala knows you have to glove up, wear a hairnet and baseball cap. She didn't stage a photo op with her own supporters at a PA McDonald's where the owner was one of her own supporters. She didn't run her father's business into the ground, and dodge the draft five times because of her damn bone spurs.

She was volunteering at local foodbanks, shelters, in hurricane effected zones while Trump was criticizing her, and Biden was sending aide that was rejected because the hurricane areas were pro-MAGA, and militias were "hunting FEMA," even when they don't know what FEMA is, they just know it's bad because their false God Trump said it's bad.

Plus, Kamala and her running mate, Tim Walz took TIME to volunteer at a local PA phone bank to call voters while they were busy campaigning. What was Trump doing? Holding another one of his Hitler-esque rallies while the rally itself had SMALL numbers. What's his obsession with numbers? Does he have a small dick? By the way he was talking about Arnold Palmer's, it would seem so!

She had this ingrained in her at two years old. Her parents went to civil rights marches with her in a stroller. She knew what she wanted to be, and achieved her dream. Her immigrant parents also had dreams for her, and she's achieved them. Next stop for Kamala, Madam President with First Gentlemen Doug Einhoff!

Kamala is a Baptist, Doug Einhoff, her spouse, is Jewish, so yes, their marriage is an interfaith one.

My US people, PLEASE go vote! 🇺🇸

#HARRIS2024

A message to the People of the USA!

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Artist

The epistolary work I found myself working on this morning... someone writing about Savvie Marcoset and her, uh, misunderstood genius. 

See if you can find all the places where our writer thinks he’s being subtle. Jax belongs to @comfy-whumpee

The Motherfucking Gallaghers masterlist

-

The art vs. the artist: Separating Savannah Marcoset’s music from her misdeeds

By: Elliott Monroe Williams

 -

The problems caused by our modern obsession with “canceling” imperfect people are multiplying every day, touching every single aspect of our lives. Whether it’s a new scandal involving a professional athlete, celebrities like James Corden or Matt Damon, or even someone who simply said the wrong thing in a public place where their mistake was recorded and shared across the world, it seems like every day brings another person who “deserves” to be “canceled”.

What does it mean to be “canceled”? The MacMillan dictionary defines canceling, the verb, as withdrawing support from or ceasing to engage with a celebrity or public figure whose views you dislike. 

 It’s one thing to make a choice not to provide further opportunities for a platform or profit to someone whose views or actions you abhor. I support such a choice wholeheartedly and have made similar decisions myself. But does someone’s distasteful action or viewpoint mean you can’t enjoy their creations if you already loved them? Can you still read your favorite books if the author turns out to have repugnant views they simply won’t stop shouting to anyone who will listen? Can you watch the Tour de France during a doping scandal? Can you love a book written in the 19th century after discovering that the author of the book was abusive to his family?

In the case of classical music, is there any truly brilliant composer who wouldn’t be “canceled” if they were alive today? 

Does enjoying their compositions mean signing off on their crimes?

From Beethoven through Guesaldo, composers have always behaved badly

They often say instability and genius walk hand-in-hand, and many of our most beloved historical composers were criminals in their own day. Ludwig van Beethoven was famously once arrested for and charged with prowling and vagrancy after walking the chilly streets with no hat, no coat, and no form of identification. He peered through the windows of Viennese citizens’ homes until the constable was called, and a local musician had to identify him.

Johann Sebstian Bach spent a month in jail for terminating a contract with an employer. Pietro Mascagni was arrested for embezzlement (although he was later acquitted of any crime) and was an enthusiastic supporter of dictator Benito Mussolini. While legal, you could argue that such open support for the authoritarian leader would likely lead to being “canceled” today.

Should a man who supported such a dictatorial government in his own time be held as someone whose music must be shunned even today, decades after his death?

Carlo Guesaldo, whose eerie madrigal compositions offered modernist sound centuries ahead of its time, was even known to have murdered his philandering wife and her lover, and potentially also his father-in-law, although this is likely a later embellishment. While he was never charged with the crime, he nonetheless did not deny it.

These men were brilliant individuals with eccentric personal lives. Does the decision to commit a crime mean we cannot enjoy their work without approving of every action they’ve undertaken? What if we speak not of an historical composer, but a modern woman whose crimes have made her a household name?

What about Savannah Marcoset?

A brilliant violinist convicted of serious crimes

 Savannah Marcoset is arguably the most famous classical performer and composer worldwide, but it is unfortunately not for her music. She is currently serving a sentence of life without parole after being convicted of a series of crimes, including multiple counts of false imprisonment in the first degree, a variety of assault convictions, and also for obstruction of justice and attempting to intimidate a witness and jury tampering. 

Already well-known as a childhood prodigy at her chosen instrument, the violin, Ms. Marcoset moved into releasing recordings of her own original compositions at the tender age of fifteen. By twenty, she was selling out venues like Carnegie Hall. Classical music aficionados declared her the second coming of Elliott Gould, a new eccentric genius who kept to herself off the stage but shone like a diamond under the lights, with her violin in her hand.

Shortly after finishing her undergraduate degree at the prestigious Juilliard School, she lost her beloved parents in a tragic, still unsolved aviation incident. In the chaos of her grief, she forgot to eat, to sleep, and even to pursue the music that had given her life such meaning before. Her uncle, in an effort to help her regain stability, provided her with an individual who would clean the home, keep her safe, and ensure she had someone to talk to through the worst of her grief. 

To her shock and dismay, the man provided to her as an employee and servant turned out to be illegally purchased through a recently-uncovered human trafficking network in the UK. 

By all accounts and by Ms. Marcoset’s admittance at her first trial, Jackson Gallagher - the man who had been abducted, sold into modern slavery, and ended up Savannah Marcoset’s unwitting servant - spent more than a year in her employ before the situation was discovered when he was able to pass a message on to his father when Ms. Marcoset took him to the UK to visit.

Gallagher was freed and sent back home shortly after, and Ms. Marcoset spent years in prison after conviction. She was granted parole on the condition that she remain under virtual house arrest, only able to leave for performances, recording sessions, and other professional matters. She also was forced to wear an ankle monitor so that her location could be tracked at all times.

Ms. Marcoset never left her home except for the short trips for performances that she approved with her parole officer. Journalists and reporters came to her home to interview her, and none saw any sign of anything amiss. And yet, shortly after her release, Jackson Gallagher disappeared from his father’s apartment. Declared missing and eventually presumed deceased, Gallagher would only resurface years later, showing up on his father’s front step with two small children and a story. 

Savannah Marcoset, it turned out, had been hiding what she called her ‘husband’ and their eventual children together in her family’s home all along.

She was eventually tried and convicted of her crimes, and will never again see the outside of prison walls. She attempted to publish a memoir, whose release was canceled after intervention by Jackson Gallagher’s legal representation, Collins McKay of McKay, Kline, and Benson. McKay successfully argued it would cause emotional harm to her two children, the project was canceled, and Ms. Marcoset’s memoir languishes in a safety deposit box in an undisclosed bank. Ms. Marcoset continues to grant interviews, however, and has recently recorded and released a new album, which will be released in February, titled Permanent Pause. 

With the news of her new album, interest in her story has been renewed. Many classical music fans are calling for a boycott of her work, while others make the point that the proceeds will go entirely to a trust that will profit not Marcoset herself, but her two children by Gallagher.

Can we appreciate good music from bad people?

If misdeeds must be eternally punished, even as the person might grow and change with time, this insists that someone is never better than the one time they were at their worst. Do we judge Beethoven by his slovenly housekeeping or even his way of looking into the homes of others while wandering the streets?

Do we cease to listen to Mozart because of his propensity for arrogance and a sometimes less than pleasant demeanor? Do we turn away from Guesaldo’s genius when learning of his single act of double-homicide?

No, we do not. 

We acknowledge unfortunate realities, of course, but even so we equally acknowledge the great men and women of music as part and parcel of their time and place. Noblemen in a time when nobility lived above the common law applied to others, composers during the days when what we call classical music was what everyone revered and flocked to see. Celebrities of their time who acted within the more lax boundaries of their day.

I would argue Savannah Marcoset, in some ways, is the same.

Sure, she is a modern musician, but she was raised by a family whose criminality only recently came to light, and continues to insist that she was unaware of her parents’ true occupations until after their deaths. For someone who grew up in a household in which servants were, by and large, unpaid and had been with the family for generations, is it so strange that her sense of what counts as ‘freedom’ was so wildly out of touch?

Of course, I don’t excuse her crimes, and the law has duly punished her for them. She will never see the outside of prison walls, and is only given a single hour each day to exercise outdoors. Jackson Gallagher has successfully ensured she has no legal rights to her two children whatsoever and will likely never see them again. While she is allowed visitation, her visitors must be approved by the prison warden. Beyond her interactions with guards and staff, she lives an utterly solitary life. 

She even admitted in a recent interview with a journalist in People Magazine that she doesn’t even know what her children look like, and worries often about them, with no chance to settle maternal worries, as Gallagher has resettled back in the UK. 

In many ways, she has been returned to those early days after the loss of her parents, when she lived in a great big building entirely alone, with only her music for comfort.

Some of her greatest work was written while she was in the midst of the crimes she was convicted of. Firecracker, which she herself called ‘a story of falling in love’, was written even while she held Gallagher as a captive within her home. She acknowledged, after conviction, that the idea for the title had been his, a childhood nickname he hoped would gain the attention of the family still searching for him. Its follow-up, Five Stones Thrown (the title is another name for a game called jacks, and Marcoset has admitted it was a sort of personal joke), is perhaps the greatest album of her career. A woman at the top of her industry, channeling her pain, uncertainty, and fear into music the likes of which we haven’t seen in decades if not centuries.

Deciding whether or not Ms. Marcoset’s work has redeeming value shouldn’t be a decision on whether or not she is a good person. Clearly, she has committed heinous crimes she is rightfully being punished for. I don’t support her music because of what she has done, but in spite of it. I don’t believe good music should be subjected to the whims of human misdeeds, but valued far beyond the silly little lives we lead.

In short, separate art and artist, but know who profits off the sales

In the case of Savannah Marcoset, I would never buy another album of hers if I thought she would make a cent off the sale. She is a woman who committed heinous, violent crimes against a man who could not escape her. 

But I also know she won’t make a cent. 

I take comfort in the fact that all proceeds of sales of her work from the day of her conviction have been moved into a trust that her two children will be able to access once they reach the age of 25.

That said, I know how difficult it is to hear music the same way once you know what was happening during the time it was composed. Firecracker and Five Stones Thrown are albums that tell a story of an all-consuming love, both the good and the bad, but it was a love lived as horror for the other person forced into the story. Gallagher still lives with the physical, tangible results of that horror even today as he parents the children he shares with Ms. Marcoset.

Still, the music is divine, and such perfect melodies should not be lost to our shifting sense of right and wrong. We shouldn’t “cancel” music because the composer is imperfect. It is imperative to separate art from artist, because very few of us have lived pristine lives, and those who create art - musicians, artists, actors, and others - are far from likely to be perfect themselves.

Bad people often make exceptional art.

Every time I purchase a new album by Savannah Marcoset, I do so knowing that she won’t see a dime. Jackson Gallagher and his two children as a result of the crimes she committed against him will. 

In that way, it’s them I support by separating art from artist, and not Ms. Marcoset at all.

-

Elliott Monroe Williams lives in New York City with his girlfriend Bree, his dog Fuzzles, and an ill-tempered iguana named Joe. He has written for the New York Times, NPR, and a variety of online publications focused on classical music. 

You can find his other writing on Savannah Marcoset in the archives on his personal website, elliottmwilliams.com. 

Editor’s Note: Jackson Gallagher did not respond to repeated requests for comment on this piece prior to publication.

-

@eatyourdamnpears @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @iaminamoodymoodtoday @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @whumptywhumpdump @boxboysandotherwhump @thefancydoughnut @mylifeisonthebookshelf @whumpinggrounds

[palant1r]

we just finished the first turnabout serenade trial and klavier is being a bitch: an analysis

I don't think Klavier has a crush on Apollo. I don't think Klavier likes Apollo at all. I think Klavier is trying to get Apollo disbarred, and I think this is the interpretation that makes the most sense with how Klavier acts.

-Klavier has absolutely no reason to believe his brother is guilty. Kristoph was convicted on extremely convenient evidence that could easily have been concocted by the defendant, a man Klavier knows is a forger.

-See his wording when he calls Apollo "the boy who bested my brother." Not "caught." "Bested." As if that trial was a battle of evidence rather than actual truth

-At first, Klavier comes off as very kind and cooperative. But then, when he's no longer in control of the trial and he doesn't believe the defendant could be innocent, he quickly turns cruel and condescending. He constantly says that Apollo doesn't have what it takes, yet is also goading him at all times into presenting evidence.

-He is a lot like his brother. At first, we don't see this because their body language and behavior is so different. But in Turnabout Serenade we see that, just like Kristoph, Klavier is a paranoid control freak who uses his charisma to make everyone else follow his cue in conversation, and we first see his breakdown sprite when Lamiroir says something he wasn't expecting and couldn't control

-I think Klavier thinks Kristoph is innocent, and Apollo is a weak-minded foolish young attorney who was manipulated by Phoenix into presenting false evidence. That's why he goads Apollo saying he should learn to think for himself. Klavier does not know how complicit or knowing Apollo was, but he intends to find out.

-Klavier is more cognizant of the penalty system than any prosecutor we've seen, and actually interacts with it. He seems to have a vested interest in raising the stakes for Apollo, in making the punishments harsher for presenting the wrong evidence

-Unlike past prosecutors who would draw the trial out and force Phoenix to present evidence they already had access to that was favorable to the defense, Klavier seems to want Apollo to present even evidence favorable to the prosecution that Klavier could have led with. He's giving Apollo every opportunity possible to present evidence, and trying to make him desperate enough to fudge or forge it

-Klavier needs to have control of all the information and what everyone knows. He doesn't let Apollo and Trucy onto crime scenes to be nice. He does it so he can know exactly what they know, what evidence they could have found, and what evidence he should keep an eye out for that they couldn't have found.

-Klavier's paranoia about the keys and the guitar makes a lot of sense with this interpretation. If you're trying to catch a man who forges evidence and frames the innocent, of course you're gonna panic when stuff of yours goes missing and turns up at crime scenes, or little incidents happen around you with no explanation. And that's why he asks Apollo if he torched his guitar, even though from our perspective he has no reason to think that

-"But Andy," you may ask, "Klavier makes an effort to be close to Apollo and hang around him, like how he invited him to the concert? Why would he do that if he didn't trust Apollo?"

-Good question. What kind of person would keep his enemy close like that?

-The kind of person with an obsessive need to keep an eye on every situation. The kind of person convinced that anyone they let out of their sight will act against them

-The same kind of person who has regular dinners at the Borscht Bowl Club with a man they framed for forging evidence seven years ago, say

-compare "I knew you didn't have what it takes" to kristoph telling apollo to "not embarrass me"

-the worst part of this theory? Klavier is totally justified. Phoenix is a forger, Apollo presented forged evidence, and Kristoph was convicted using it. He just happened to be guilty. Klavier is perceptive, smart and principled.

-re: klapollo, I think Apollo was genuinely charmed by Klavier in turnabout corner. He thought Klavier was cool and pretty. Like, that's in his internal dialogue. But we're not getting any of that favorable towards klavier internal dialogue in Turnabout Serenade, because he's starting to see beyond klav's carefully constructed mask

-edit: I'm seeing a lot of people say this is negative towards klapollo and...I honestly don't see it that way? like ymmv so I'll remove the klapollo tag to be polite but this isn't negative to klapollo in the same way that pointing out edgeworth's flaws isn't negative to wrightworth. where we're at now, I think the story is definitely setting up the seeds of a relationship between klavier and apollo that is FAR more interesting than just "haha the prosecutor had a crush from the first time they met." and again, while the popular fandom interpretation is that klavier fell first, i firmly believe that apollo had a lil crush in turnabout corner that's evaporating in turnabout serenade, but will turn into a far stronger emotional connection than the superficial attraction klavier was trying to elicit

-anyway i'll probably add onto this but i will die on this hill

[everyonewasabird]

Brickclub 5.5.1 “In Which We See the Tree with the Plate of Zinc once More”

This feels like a fable, though I don’t know what it’s a fable for.

We start with being reintroduced to Boulatruelle, but the sense we get of him feels very different than before. He was pitiable when we first met him, a meek and downtrodden Valjean who’d never met the bishop. When Thenardier plied him with drink, though he had recognized Valjean from the bagne and knew his name, he never betrayed him. The locals distrusted him--but only because he was too polite not to be a convict.

Now, he’s a dangerous highwayman.

And it’s possible he was then, too--looking back at that passage, we know the locals distrusted his manner and suspected him of belonging to roving gangs of bandits. I read that initially as an indication that the rumors weren’t true--but we don’t actually know that. It’s entirely possible he was a highwayman all along, and this chapter seems to imply that that might be so.

Anyway, Boulatruelle, we know, has a Questing Beast he’s been hunting for years, and in this chapter he glimpses it again--”it” being Valjean coming to dig up his hidden fortune. The narration is wry and mocking as Boulatruelle is by turns stupid and clever trying to figure out where Valjean went; it feels to me like a fairly fable-like kind of narrative distance. He climbs a tree, glimpses his quarry again, climbs down, makes the mistake of trying to make a straight line through the brambles and nettles (nettles!) and arrives very scratched up and much too late. His treasure his gone for good, and he considers it stolen.

I sort of half expect a little Aesop moral to follow.

What does it mean? It’s interesting the way Boulatruelle has fallen from our somewhat positive impression of before (doesn’t rat out other convicts! possibly not a highwayman!) to what he is now (sad-sack drunkard with nothing left but armed robbery and the desperate hope of this one improbable treasure.) The straight line through the brambles feels moralistic, like some point about false prudence, but I can’t follow it. It maybe echoes something in Valjean’s speech to Montparnasse, about how the path that looks easy (ie crime) is unbelievably punishing; but then again, that speech sure was some weird bourgeois bullshit and I’m not sure what to make of that. The uncultivated nettles favor Valjean’s side against Boulatruelle, because of course they do.

What strikes me most is that in the mythology we’ve been presented Re: Boulatruelle’s quest, achieving the treasure of the Montfermeil woods is an insane thing to want. I presume Boulatruelle is too practical to believe the myth that he’ll die if he sees the devil/speaks to the devil/steals the devil’s treasure, but myths matter in this book.

And what it seems to say is that Boulatruelle’s quest here is absolutely self-destructive, much like his drinking. Leaving the bagne has left him with no recourse except crime, no comfort except heavy drinking, and no hope except stealing this treasure from a fellow ex-con--a treasure which, if he finds it, will supposedly cause him to die within the month. He’s hardly the only one in the area who’s desperate enough to try for it, but he’s the only one who’s obsessed enough to keep hunting this one mysterious guy.

Honestly, it’s a pretty good illustration of the decision-making process of somebody who’s got no future and nothing to hope for besides making his fleeting present momentarily a little less unbearable. We aren’t meant to like Boulatruelle, at least not here, but it sure is clear how society utterly failed him.

[infinity0nhigh]

“A daydream spills from my corked head / Breaks free of my wooden neck / Left a nod over sleeping waves / Like bobbing bait for bathing cod / Floating flocks of candled swans / Slowly drift across wax ponds” “…we’re all too small to talk to God. yeah, we’re all too smart to talk to God.”

Spent most of last night dragging this lake for the corpses of all my past mistakes / Sell me out, joke’s on you / we are salt, and you are the wound”

“We all carry these things inside that no one else can see / they weigh us down like anchors, they drown us out at sea / I look up to the sky, there may be nothing there to see / but if I don’t believe in him, why would he believe in me?”

“They say the captain goes down with the ship, so when the world ends, will God go down with it?”

“I saw her with her hands tied back / And her rags were burning / Crawling out from a landfilled life / Scrawlin' her name upon the ceiling / Throw a coin in a fountain of dust / White noise, her ears are ringing / Got a ticket for a midnight hanging / Throw a bullet from a freight train leaving”

“Walking to the other side / with the devil trying to take my mind / and my soul’s just a silhouette, from the ashes of a cigarette. Sometimes, the jail can’t chain the cell / and the rain’s too plain to tell / all alone by a barren well / Scarecrow’s only scaring himself”

“Stretched to the limit, attention spans snap back, retract, collapse in the laugh tracks / Noise response, applause and hand claps / floodgates open to the sound of the rainbow / Breaking point’s on the verge of pointless / Fools anointed to the followers’ fanfare / Look for the common, not superficial / Code Red cola spurns conformity crisis / Perfunctory idols rewriting their Bibles, with magic markers running out of their ink / Lives in White-Out, turn the lights out / fax machine anthem’s got their hands up”

“Wishes bounce me weightless / the infrared scope on pointlessness / the bulls are sedated, and this fight’s fixed”

“I love everything about you that hurts, so lemme see your moves / lips pressed close to mine, true blue” “Trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns, I sleep in your old shirts and walk through this house in your shoes. I know it’s strange. It’s the strangest way of saying ‘I know I’m supposed to love you.’”

“It’s these substandard motels on the corner of Fourth and Fremont Street / appealing only ‘cause they’re just that unappealing / any practiced Catholic would cross themselves upon entering / The rooms have a hint of asbestos and maybe just a dash of formaldehyde / and the habit of decomposing right before your very eyes… along with the people inside / What a wonderful caricature of intimacy”

“When the moon fell in love with the sun, all was golden in the sky. All was golden when the day might the night.” “When the sun found the moon, she was drinking tea in a garden, under the green umbrella trees in the middle of summer. When the moon found the sun, he looked like he was barely hanging on, but her eyes changed his life in the middle of summer.”

“Give us this day our daily dose of faux affliction. Forgive our sins, forged at the pulpit, with forked tongues selling false sermons. / Because I am a new wave gospel sharp, and you’ll be thy witness / so gentlemen, if you’re gonna preach / for God’s sake, preach with conviction.”

“I’m breaking my teeth off trying to bite my lip. And there’s all kinds of redheaded women that I ain’t supposed to kiss. And it’s this color that never fails to turn me blue. So I just swallow it and hold onto it, and use it to scare the hell out of you.”

“Sister, I’m not much a poet, but a criminal, and you never had a chance.”

“I’m casually obsessed, and I’ve forgiven death. I am indifferent yet, I am a total wreck. I’m every cliché, but I simply do it best.” “Went to sleep a poet, and I woke up a fraud. To calm your nerves, I’m feeling for my clothes in the dark.”

“The next time the phone can wring my neck, it gets no answer. And the time that I spent telling it my roots; I’m shaking in my boots. But still it looks at me like an old friend I’ve betrayed. The dark side of the doormat is the one your shoes have frayed.”

“I’ll be stuck fixated on one star when the world is crashing down.”

“You claimed all this time that you would die for me. Why then, are you so surprised when you hear your own eulogy?”

“I fell from the heavens as a fetish blessed with an operatic skeleton. And as the stars watched me descend, I cracked a family tree and, broke off all the branches.”

…are some of my favorite lyrics.

[nofriendsius-readsalot]

Killing Stalking Ch. 11-13 Contains Spoilers

Chapter 11: We may have already met him once, but in this chapter, we get a little more depth on our cop, Yang Seungbae, who I will be calling YS. We first get a look into the local police station, where YS works. In the first few interactions between him and his coworkers, we see he is degraded and disrespected, seen as annoying and inferior. As we learned earlier, he was demoted for disobeying orders and pursuing cases without permission at his previous position. It seems he cannot escape his reputation nor his old habits. He is most notable for his immediate suspicion of SW, as he had examined his parent’s murder and found him the most likely culprit. That considered, during a flashback we see two of YS’ coworkers gossiping about him. Here we learn that when he was first beginning as a detective, he solved a case. While he was trying to convince everyone that a beggar did it, the actual criminal was caught. This led fellow police to believe he was trying to convict an innocent man to advance his career. YS’ trauma regarding the police and his father’s death is likely what leads to a disconnect between him and his peers, they don’t understand the consequences of not following every lead. With this experience, YS is compelled to pry after being denied the rights to a citizen's black box footage.

Chapter 12 & 13: A common theme in this story, almost immediate obsession. YS has no actual explanation as to why he needs to investigate SW, but like both SW and YB, he is transfixed. This fixation compels him to inspect SW home without permission. Dare I call this desperation, while we know he is correct is his suspicion of SW, we also know he has little to no evidence. This need to convict SW could likely not be based on SW’s observed actions at all, but the fact that YS had been condemned socially for being incorrect in his hunches. Now that he has formed a new one from inspecting SW’s parents’ deaths, he is grappling for evidence and even committing crimes to find a reason to prove himself. SW’s off-putting nature when confronting YS only fuels this, as it is similar to how he is treated by his peers. YS believes he is highly capable, which is evident when he tries to deceive SW and buy more time in his home by faking a phone call. This is obviously unsuccessful. This is where SW feels as if he has the upper hand, with a concealed weapon and a flustered victim, SW’s full intentions are to reveal YB as to raise fear, then kill YS. SW’s panic when he realized he didn’t know where YB was could be misconstrued as concern for his safety and feeling betrayed by someone he cared about, but I believe it is merely panic at the loss of control. The flashbacks to being intimate with YB were instances where SW had complete control over YB emotional attachment. SW says things like “I won’t forgive you” and “How dare you fuck with me” which imply distress at YB not being under his command. His erection is interesting, as I have previously established not believing SW is capable of sexual attraction. That being said, attraction and sensation are different. After imagining himself strangling his mother, he gets sexually excited. It is likely that he is not attracted to others sexually, yet receives sexual gratification from committing violence. As SW reenters his home, he seems to be giving himself a pep talk, preparing himself to kill YB. This relates back to my lover’s question in my previous post, is SW capable of killing YB? His previous victims, the girl, and the man were killed without hesitation. Not only that but they were intentionally lured into SW’s home. YB on the other hand, came on his own, albeit without knowing what would happen. While clearly, YB’s intentions were not to be held hostage, SW is clearly very mentally ill. In his perception, YB coming into his basement may have been an invitation to abuse him. This could be what sets YB apart from other victims. SW feels it is a mutual attraction, but not in the way YB thinks it is.

DISCLAIMER: After posting this I was informed that Sang-Woo has been confirmed to be heterosexual by Koogi. My speculation was false