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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as NASH ELBRECHT I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Rafayel—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Cheng Xiaoshi, Luke Davis and Phainon linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“NOHR SAELRIC” 0411.
ㅤㅤI could veil my thoughts in
ㅤㅤphilosophy, yet the sight of you
ㅤㅤturns argument into ache, desire
ㅤㅤinto doctrine, and my restraint
ㅤㅤinto devotion.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as NOHR SAELRIC I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Nokto Klein—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Artem Wing, Aki Hayakawa, Alhaitham, Suguru Geto and Sasuke Uchiha linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“OLIVER GEOFFREY” 0307.
ㅤㅤMaintain your mystique — not
ㅤㅤevery chapter deserves an
ㅤㅤaudience. Guard your serenity
ㅤㅤlike it’s sacred.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as OLIVER GEOFFREY I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Sylus—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Caleb and Itsuomi Nagi linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“SETH PRADITYA” 0707.
ㅤㅤYou're not alone, im with you,
ㅤㅤmy soul belongs to you.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as SETH PRADITYA I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Itoshi Rin—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Xavier, Kudo Shinichi, Yugi Amane, Scaramouche and Yuuta Okkotsu linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“SHIHO RYUNO” 1806.
ㅤㅤIf heaven ever looked down on
ㅤㅤme, it would stare with envy,
ㅤㅤsurprised that a body beaten by
ㅤㅤtorment could still find relief in
ㅤㅤsomething no higher power ever
ㅤㅤgave, no other than you.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as SHIHO RYUNO I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Ichimura Kohaku—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Michael Kaiser, Karasu Tabito, Sebastian Moran, Guren Ichinose, Mei Sashinami and Tian Xuning linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“AGATHA DÈ MEUTHIA” 1406.
ㅤㅤSometimes the smallest
ㅤㅤmoments leave the deepest marks.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as AGATHA DÈ MEUTHIA I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Park Sohyun—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Clorinde, Mikasa Ackerman, Sunjing and Zoya linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“AVENELLE HAWTHORNE” 2009.
ㅤㅤLove is a gentle rebellion against
ㅤㅤtime, distance, and reason.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as AVENELLE HAWTHORNE I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Carlotta—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Ashley Graham linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“CYRAN WISEHART.” 0302.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
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