ㅤㅤ
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.
ㅤㅤ
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.
ㅤㅤ
❤3
OUR LOVERS: Be YOURs.
ㅤㅤ 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. ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
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.
ㅤㅤ
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.
ㅤㅤ
OUR LOVERS: Be YOURs.
ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ“AGATHA DÈ MEUTHIA” 1406. ㅤㅤSometimes the smallest ㅤㅤmoments leave the deepest marks. ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
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.
ㅤㅤ
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.
ㅤㅤ
OUR LOVERS: Be YOURs.
ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ“AVENELLE HAWTHORNE” 2009. ㅤㅤLove is a gentle rebellion against ㅤㅤtime, distance, and reason. ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
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.
ㅤㅤ
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.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“CYRAN WISEHART.” 0302.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“CYRAN WISEHART.” 0302.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ
OUR LOVERS: Be YOURs.
ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ“CYRAN WISEHART.” 0302. ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like ㅤㅤthey should have been ours. ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
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 CYRAN WISEHART I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Varka—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, Baek Siyoon, Wriothesley, Park Yunsu, Phainon and Kwon Chaewoo 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.
ㅤㅤ
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 CYRAN WISEHART I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Varka—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, Baek Siyoon, Wriothesley, Park Yunsu, Phainon and Kwon Chaewoo 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.
ㅤㅤ
❤2
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“LUCAS SÖREN.” 1504.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“LUCAS SÖREN.” 1504.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ
OUR LOVERS: Be YOURs.
ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ“LUCAS SÖREN.” 1504. ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like ㅤㅤthey should have been ours. ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
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 LUCAS SÖREN I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Lu Guang—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, Mydeimos, Jo Incheol, Zhongli, Toki Ninomae & Arjuna Arkana 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.
ㅤㅤ
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 LUCAS SÖREN I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Lu Guang—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, Mydeimos, Jo Incheol, Zhongli, Toki Ninomae & Arjuna Arkana 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.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“AVÉNOIR DE MAVALE.” 0511.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“AVÉNOIR DE MAVALE.” 0511.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ
OUR LOVERS: Be YOURs.
ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ“AVÉNOIR DE MAVALE.” 0511. ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like ㅤㅤthey should have been ours. ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
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 AVÉNOIR DE MAVALE I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Okkotsu Yuta—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, Miya Atsumu, Kaedehara Kazuha, Gojo Satoru, Power, Megan (Katseye), Maki Zenin, Kwon Ohyul and Aleksander Veil 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.
ㅤㅤ
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 AVÉNOIR DE MAVALE I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Okkotsu Yuta—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, Miya Atsumu, Kaedehara Kazuha, Gojo Satoru, Power, Megan (Katseye), Maki Zenin, Kwon Ohyul and Aleksander Veil 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.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“BENJAMIN HOSEA.” 2629.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“BENJAMIN HOSEA.” 2629.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ
❤7