#* ✫ . * ✧˚( they made you into a weapon and told you to find peace ✧ inspo)

[forwhump]

a/n; for my anon that was having a bad week <3 IM SORRY FOR THE DELAY I couldn’t find the thing I wanted to post for you but I couldn’t just keep posting nothing so here’s something instead <3 I hope I didn’t make it way worse 😚 (if I did pls lmk I’ll redeem myself 🫡)

disclaimer: if you haven’t already noticed yes this is just a big outlet for me for every whump thing I want in the world <3 thanks for coming along for this ride w me 😚 LOL

tw/cw: medical torture, medical abuse, surgical torture, living weapon whumpee, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, severe brain injuries, amnesia, threats of violence, graphic depictions of violence, gun violence, science fiction

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Silas says, cracking his knuckles. “I like you, man.”

Medic’s face doesn’t change but he swallows so loudly Silas can hear him over the pounding of the alarm. Sitting behind his desk, he stares up at him, his pale face glowing red every few seconds in the flash of the emergency lights. The flickering red light of his shock collar glows out of time, keeping him cast in red. It makes him look really sick. Kinda frail. Silas had never noticed quite how small Medic is. They’re all so fuckin’ small. Why is Silas the pet?

It makes him think of Wren, as most things do. He’s always thinking about Wren in some capacity; everything always comes back around to Wren somehow, even without his meaning to. They’re all so small but Wren is the smallest, so small it’s hard for Silas not to find it kind of bizarre, so human it gave him this glowing, angelic sort of quality. Silas had been engineered for violence, for easy slaughter, but he hadn’t been engineered to be a guard dog — that was something Wren brought out in him, something organic. Maybe the only bit of free will Silas had ever managed, and there’s Wren again, at the centre, glowing and holy and so fuckin’ small.

All anybody wants to do is hurt him. It makes Silas violent, just as much as it’s never made a lick of fuckin’ sense to him. All anybody around Wren ever wants to do is hurt him. Silas lives and breathes violence — Wren does, too. It follows him. This silvery, holy thing.

Everything about Wren is good, is silvery, is holy. He’s angelic in the way he shimmers, but in everything else about him, too, every organic cell and strand of DNA. Wren is so good. Wren is pure goodness. His view of the world is narrowed to a single point, but it’s hard for Silas to imagine many corners of the world are much worse than this. Are people not most themselves at their worst? Wasn’t it Wren that told him that?

Silas isn’t a good person. He knows that. He isn’t at peace with it, he’s been fighting it tooth and talon, but he knows what he is, and he’s a bad dog at the very kindest. Freak fuckin’ science experiment at worst. He’s violent. Mean. Quick to anger and just as quick to slaughter. He’s impatient. Wren had to teach him manners, and he’s had to teach him more than once. Still, Wren taught him. Wren teaches him still. Wren, who’s been hurt in ways even Silas kinda struggles to fathom, who would have every reason in the world to be just as violent, as mean, as impatient as Silas, but who isn’t. Who sat on the floor with him for days at a time and patiently taught Silas to write his own name. Who spends days sitting at Silas’ bedside, reading to him quietly, when Silas is too incapacitated to move. How can anybody want to hurt a person like that? How can everybody?

To Silas, they’re all so small. Disposable. But they’re so much bigger than Wren. Point was always so much bigger than Wren. Point always liked to hurt him the most.

Silas cracks his neck. “I just want to know where they are.”

There had been a lockdown. Silas had been the cause of every district lockdown so far — he’s never been on the outside of one before. It had happened during a field test, and it was the first time he’s ever seen the manufactured sun of the arena turn red. He should’ve known it was an omen. From there, he was thrown into isolation, but it was like no other time Silas had been in isolation. Nobody showed up to skin him, or cane him, or beat him, or gut him. Nobody showed up to taunt him. They didn’t even restrain him, not really, they just left him alone in the dark. He was left in proper isolation for the very first time.

When he was finally allowed back to the unit, Wren was gone. His room was cleared out. His books had been taken from Silas’ room like he had never been there at all. They keep trying to tell him he had never been there at all.

But Point had never come back, either, and Silas isn’t a smart man, but he’s smarter than these people keep giving him credit for. He was smart enough to figure that one out. When it comes to Wren, there isn’t anything he can’t do. Wren makes him smart, and he makes him invincible. If Wren’s out there somewhere, Silas is going to find him, it doesn’t matter what he has to do. If Point had taken him, if Point is putting his hands on him, if Wren is out there somewhere and he’s hurt, and he’s scared, he’s probably thinking about Silas, and there isn’t anything in the fuckin’ world Silas won’t do to save him. He’ll massacre everybody in this place and outside of it if he has to.

He doesn’t want to kill Medic. He’s always been good to him. But he will if he has to. He’ll kill any one of them if he has to.

“I don’t know,” Medic tells him, and he’s doing a good job of keeping his face straight but his eyes are huge, shining in the flashing red light. “You know they don’t tell me anything. Come on, big guy.”

“Medic,” Silas warns, almost sing song.

Abruptly, he pushes his chair back, and it collides with the concrete wall with a sound that makes Silas’ back teeth hurt. “I don’t know, buddy,” he says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

There’s already blood on Silas’ hands — on his teeth. He’d had to kill a lot of Medic’s team to get here. He didn’t even know Medic had an office; he’s never been in this part of the medical bay before. It will never forget him. He’ll be a stain on the walls, and the floors, and the ceilings of this place for a very long time.

He picks a chunk of flesh out from under his fingernail and says, “Medic.”

“Silas,” he tries. “Come on, big guy. I’d tell you if I knew. I think — I think he’s probably in a lot of danger and I want you to find him, buddy. You need to find him. But I don’t know where he is.”

Silas tilts his head. Watches him, for a moment, through flickering red light. “Are you lying to me?”

“No,” Medic croaks. “I’ll come with you. I can help you, big guy. You don’t — you don’t know what you’re in for up there up, Silas, but I do, and I — I can help you. I can help you find him. I can help him when we get there. He’ll need a doctor and I — don’t hurt me, buddy. Come on. I’ve tried to be good to you both. I can — I can help.”

Silas watches him again, silent. It feels like bait and he doesn’t like it, but he used to trust Medic. Wren always trusted him, before he disappeared out from under his nose, and Wren’s trust goes a long way as far as Silas is concerned.

And he’s right, to a degree. Silas would make quick work of butchering every breathing thing above ground to find his way to Wren, but it would still take time he could spare if he knew how to find him.

Slowly, he lifts his chin.

Medic’s face finally changes. Not for the better. “Silas —” is all the time he has before pain explodes through the back of Silas’ head.

It comes out of nowhere and it almost knocks him off his feet. It’s hot, it’s blisteringly hot and his sweatshirt starts to stick to his back, wet.

The red light continues to flicker but it dims, it gets sort of smoky, and through the smoke Medic is saying something but Silas can’t hear him at all.

Fuck, he thinks, and lifts a hand to the back of his head. Accidentally almost sticks his finger in a gunshot wound.

Instinctively, he turns.

He’s executed in Medic’s office by means of firing squad.

Staring blankly up at the ceiling, Silas listens to the crackle of electricity as it courses and the hollow chirping of the machines keeping him alive. “I don’t wanna die,” he says. He’s not ready yet.

Medic sniffles. He’s been crying for hours and Silas has never felt the way he feels now, not once in his short life. “I’m so sorry, big guy,” he admits, rubbing his face. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do now.”

Silas has died a lot, and he’s died miserably, but never permanently. Never for real. He’s always been revived, reanimated. He’s never had to fear death because it never really meant anything to him. He’s out of his element now. He doesn’t know this part.

For as long as he can remember, Silas hasn’t been human. Now he’s only meat and machine. The only part of him that’s still him, the only part of him that’s still working on his own is his brain, and that’s only until they finally decided to take him off life support and remove it.

He’d been eviscerated. The flayed skin of his chest and his stomach are pulled tightly over the table, clamped in place. Most of the meat and the muscle had been removed, his ribcage pried apart. Every organ, a lot of his major veins and arteries, they’re threaded with wires and cords, sparking with electricity and the current that courses from the chrome and flickering lights at his bedside, keeping him alive until they decide to shut it all down.

Silas is going to be put down.

It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel like anything. It’s the most painless way he’s ever died but it’s bitter at the back of his throat. Metallic. Finally, Silas is going to be put down.

Wren is still out there somewhere, and Silas is never gonna know what happened to him. He’s not gonna be able to save him this time. He isn’t all that familiar with death, the permanent kind, and he doesn’t really know what comes after, but he knows for sure that he isn’t gonna end up in the same place Wren does. He wishes he could go where Wren’s going. He’s never gonna get to see him again.

Silas always knew his life was gonna be short. There wasn’t ever really a question. But it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He’s not ready to go.

This can’t be it for him, not really, not permanently. It can’t. Not while Wren is still out there.

He’d been too violent in the aftermath. He hadn’t reacted well. And they can’t control him the same anymore, not without Wren to hold over his head. He was formally declared a liability. He’s no longer worth the risk.

Turning his head slowly, Silas says, “do something for me.”

Medic sniffles again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Anything.”

“You gotta get out of here,” Silas tells him. “You gotta find him. You gotta help him.”

He looks at Silas, and he looks at him earnestly. He’s been crying on and off the entire time he’s been at his bedside, and it’s been moderately irritating at the best of times, suffocating at worst. But he’s been at Silas’ bedside the entire time. The whole time he’s been dying, Medic has been there. He’s never left. He’s done his best to keep him comfortable. All things considered, Silas owes him most of his lives. He doesn’t owe Silas anything, he’s done more than his part, but he says still, “I will.”

“Take care of him for me,” Silas says.

“I will,” he repeats, and he sniffles again but his nod is firm. Definitive. “He’ll be okay.”

Silas looks back up at the grey ceiling and tastes bile. Out of habit, he takes a deep breath.

When they had first disemboweled him, when they had strapped him down to the table and peeled all the meat away from his ribcage, pulled his ribcage apart, the inside of his body had been loud, but it had been wet, it was alive. Now, it’s just as loud, maybe louder, but the sounds are wheezy and dry. Mechanical. Only his brain is working on its own — the rest is all simulated. It’s all machines.

It hurt a lot as his body was dying. Mercifully, it doesn’t hurt anymore. He thinks it’s kind of fucked up that his most permanent death is gonna hurt the least.

“Do you think he’ll forget about me?” He asks the ceiling.

“No,” Medic answers, even before he’s finished speaking. “I think he’s going to think about you every day for the rest of his life.”

Silas had spent every day of his life, since meeting Wren, thinking about him. Most of what Silas thinks about, in fact, is Wren. Everything he did, he did for Wren. He didn’t usually make his life any better, any easier, but he tried. Fuck, he tried.

He wasn’t a good dog, that’s the worst part. He tried, tooth and fuckin’ nail he tried, but to what end? Silas’ brain is going to be removed. Wren’s gone, and Silas doesn’t know where. He isn’t safe, he’s being hurt, he knows that, but for the first time, Silas is absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Silas is going to die without ever seeing him again.

“Nobody that’s known you will ever forget you, big guy,” Medic tells him. “I don’t want you to worry about that.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Silas says. The beat of his heart sounds like the beeping of a heart monitor.

He sighs softly, shifting in his chair. He sniffles again. “I’ll make sure he’s okay,” he says. “I promise.”

“This sucks, man,” Silas says helplessly.

He chokes out a wet laugh. He sobs, too. “I’m gonna miss you, buddy,” he says.

Restrained to the surface, he lifts his fist from the table as far as he can. “See you in hell?”

He sobs again. He laughs, too. “I’ll see you there. Tell you what,” he says, knocking his fist against Silas’, “when I get there, you can call me Jed.”

“Why?” Silas asks. “What’s Jed?”

He chokes out another sound, rubbing his mouth as he does it. “My name.”

“I thought your name was Medic,” Silas says, but it makes sense that it wouldn’t be his real name, because that’s also his job. He’d just never considered him having a real name, and he doesn’t wanna think about how much else is out there that’s he never considered, that he doesn’t know, that he’ll never know, but he can’t help it and it would make him vomit if his stomach had anything in it but active circuits and live wires. As it is, it crackles loudly with electricity.

But Medic laughs again, and it lightens the burden a little bit. It sits better than the crying. “That’s a lie,” he says. “It’s actually Jed.”

Silas lifts the corner of his mouth. “You might have to remind me next time.”

“I will,” he agrees. When the door beeps, a keycard being accepted, Medic takes his hand. “I’m gonna miss you, Silas.”

Silas says, “find Wren.”

It’s Carver that comes to loom over the head of the table. Carver specializes in head, face, and brain; Weaver specializes in organs and meat.

“Asset Park,” he says, “we want to thank you for your service.”

“Get fucked,” Silas says. Panic rises in his chest, and it surprises him.

The last thing he ever thinks about is Wren.

Jed doesn’t move from his chair, and the surgeon doesn’t ask him to. He doesn’t know if this one is Carver or Weaver; he doesn’t care. They’re both creepy, surgeons straight from horror movies, mad scientists from some especially miserable circle of hell.

He sits, watches. Doesn’t quite know why; figures Silas deserves that. Doesn’t deserve to be alone for this.

Except it isn’t what Jed thought it was going to be. Silas’ brain isn’t removed. It isn’t destroyed. Once his scalp is peeled down over his face, the top of his skull is sawed off, and once the bone is lifted out of place, the surgeon starts cutting into his brain, injecting into the tissue, with his other hand, something that Jed doesn’t recognize, something that looks like oil in the syringe.

He has to swallow before he can ask, “what are you doing?”

The surgeon doesn’t answer him.

He’s been crying for days, but it stops quickly. Nausea roils in. Silas was scared, and for that, Jed can’t imagine, but Silas’ life had been so miserable. It had been so painful. As resistant as he had been, he was tired. He deserves to rest. “You’re not gonna let him die?”

The surgeon doesn’t lift his head, but he makes a, “heh,” sound, which probably passes as amusement for him.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says.

“Asset Park is our most advanced weapon,” the surgeon answers, clipped, not lifting his head. “His execution would be a bitter waste.”

“What are you doing to him?” Jed asks, and the words are stale.

“Cutting out the cancer,” he says.

The first time Silas wakes up, he’s pissed. He’s pissed. The creepy surgeon dorks are supposed to be smart. They’re supposed to be the smartest. Even they can’t kill him?

The first time Silas wakes up, he wakes up during surgery, and he is so. Fuckin’. Tired. Of being awake during surgery. It’s hard to explain how much something like that hurts; it’s a pain beyond Silas’ means of description. They have to think he’s dead, they have to, because his arms aren’t restrained, but they should be smarter than that, right? They can’t tell the difference between a dead Silas and a live one?

He grabs the closest by the throat. He doesn’t know who it is — he can’t tell any of them apart in surgery, not really. They look identical, Weaver and Carver and their swarms of surgical teams. They all dress in black, surgical caps and masks and scrubs. They all have the same hungry eyes. Silas grabs one of them by the throat, it doesn’t really matter which one, because a different one quickly slits the inside of his elbow, then his wrist with a scalpel. He drops them, grunts in frustration. Drops his arm back against the table with a thunderously loud noise. Loses a couple seconds as unconsciousness creeps up on him again.

When he comes to a second time, one of the surgeons is looking at him with shining eyes. “Still,” he tells Silas, “somehow, you surprise us.”

When he wakes up, he wakes up in a bland, grey room, beneath bland, grey sheets. The surgeon standing over him is a jarring contrast, dressed all in black. It’s very small. He doesn’t recognize it.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” It asks, leaning in too close to his face.

He thinks. He can’t think of anything.

The surgeon’s eyes crinkle above its black mask. “Excellent,” it says.

[forgotten-retrouvaille]

(nourish) - leon making pancakes for her

Paperwork was never something that Jill enjoyed . Even so , it occupied most of her nights , her evenings - it was better than staying up only to stare at the ceiling and think .

Maybe a part of it rested in the guilt that still bore itself heavy on her soul , perhaps it was needing something to do , to focus herself on something that wasn't the anger she felt towards the organization for refusing to put her back in the field , the anger that they wanted her on the sidelines - they said until she recovered properly , but Jill wasn't a fan of their excuses . Even still , she would take what she could get - it would at least assuage part of herself , knowing she was one step further to fixing what had happened the last year .

The ex-cop had been up since the little hours of the morning , stirred awake by nightmares , and unable to return to the peace sleep was supposed to bring . Now , she was sat in front of the desk in a room that she had designated as her home office , papers strewn across the polished wood , empty pens accompanying half-finished reports , a radio resting towards her side . A hand ran through her hair as she let out a long exhale , blue ink scrawled across the stapled parchments in front of her .

Movement out of the corner of her eyes , the soft clink of ceramic as it was placed on the table in front of her , a stack of freshly-made pancakes resting on them . Jill's gaze flicked away from the paper , the stark white almost seared into vibrant blue - she would not complain if she did not have to see any more of those typed letters from a printer that was definitely running out of ink . She could see the cracks in the black , in the gray .

The pen was still held tight in her hand - half full with the cap practically snapped off . A moment passed , and she set it down , turning her gaze to the man standing at her side then .

"Didn't know you were up this early ." Exhaustion was written in her tone , letting out a soft breath .

[clawsextended]

holly is incredibly tolerant of selina. most people would think it weird, how patient she is with her mother’s eccentricity. how little her strangeness bothers her, and how easily she ebbs and flows with all of the cat’s decisions.

but the thing is that was not always so. whatsoever. a young holly was nothing but an infant, bounced from one lap to another through a stuttering series of stinted foster homes — golden curls and a garish giggle — and that toddler was finally placed in a home with one selina kyle. it was selina who first took to the child, and it was holly who bit and scratched and screamed and shrieked. she was fussy, loud, made messes everywhere. (and she remembers selina taking the punishments. she remembers selina insisting the coloring all over the walls was her even if it didn’t make any fucking sense.)

holly didn’t know that girl. so she didn’t trust her. she was so little, and she’d never, ever known anyone, really, so why would she be different? for the first couple years or so of knowing selina, holly was a holy terror to her — which was only rational for a little girl who didn’t know her at all, who had never had parents, who had only ever been cooed over and shuffled around between grownups.

by the time she’s around 12, holly’s already survived enough trauma to fill several lifetimes thrice her own. she’s got a form of ptsd so complex it’s mutated into a new genome. her adhd is erratic and scattered and viciously forgetful — she leaves books in school and the catwoman breaks in just to get textbooks from her locker. they get batburger after and she promises next time she won’t forget. she forgets two days later.

holly is patient with selina in a way words cannot convey because she has seen people be impatient with selina. she’s watched people forced her to wrench words from her throat when she couldn’t manage to speak. she’s seen her beaten within inches of her life for the simple sin often of opening her own mouth (and holly knows every time she doesn’t mean to). she’s seen her ridiculed for a silent distance selina often could not help, and she’s seen times when selina was too young and too shutdown to so much as wince in reply. holly is kind to selina even when it seems improbable because she can’t bear to be any other way, not when she’s watched selina curl up tight and she’s coiled into her arms and listened to her whispering incomprehensibly. holly remembers expecting her to cry and being surprised when she never felt any wet, warm salt trickle down her cheek. when she looked up, she just remembers that half-lidded look on her mom’s face, staring, constantly exhausted. selina had only been fifteen. she wouldn’t be able to cry for another handful of years.

selina makes holly feel safe. but the reverse is also extremely true.

[ahsterism]

truly i think leon kennedy’s one condition when being forced to join the military ( you know. aside from his life and sherry’s safety ) was that he gets to keep his hair long and bleach blonde. he had to be hot it’s literally all he had left.

[endawn]

no no but it is the doomed by the narrative. doomed from the start. pax’s inclusion as the starks stalwart protector changing nothing in the end. in the end, he’s still human. he’s fallible.

[wintersghst-a2]

once again making bad decisions

[varnaedhar]

@caeloservare: //I'm still feeling brave and agressive! Catch these hands! (((ง’ω’)و三 ง’ω’)ڡ≡ ♥

Missa, my beloved! I adore your Raven and I'm super excited to write with her each time. I love the tension she creates around her with her such a strong personality. I really like how she has softer sides to her prickly outer layers, but she wraps them in so much spikes so no one will know she has "weaknesses". She's tough and it shows. She's also fun banter! I mean it that queueing reply for her deals mental dmg points, because I want so badly to post right away, so I could wait to read her response not for my queue to run aksjdjdjd xD Anyhow, hi, love you, love your Raven, please keep delivering all these juicy various flavours of tension with her &lt;3

HERAMI, I AM ON MY WAY TO BED, YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME. I love you so much, you're an insane sweetheart and I really did need this so thank you. ;; Raven is probably the muse I get the most anxiety about writing because I know my take isn't entirely canon but she's really important to me, so thank you. ;;;;;;

unprompted affection how dare you

[chaoslulled]

tag drop 003.

[shesvanny]

tags.

[forgotten-retrouvaille]

ship tag dropping because it's high time i made one

will be updated when new ships are plotted/made

[clawsextended]

selina doesn’t trust the government because when gotham was occupied by bane they literally declared it under martial law and ACTIVELY policed people trying to escape. legitimately the whole fucking government said ‘oh a warlord is making one of our country’s biggest economies into a martial state but uhhhhh this looks messy we can’t handle this cut it off’. like. the entire government went ‘those people are gonna die when the bomb goes off. sucks to be you.’

so honestly her reasons for not wanting to be involved whatsoever with legal anything are bigger than just her being a huge criminal. she has seen firsthand how fucking untrustworthy and corrupt it is, and she is skeptical in every way whenever any kind of governmental conversation comes into play. she thinks that the political system is a lie and she would trust a nine year old with sharpened pink poison-dipped scissors before trusting a cop. once upon a time the entire government literally said ‘nah everyone can die’…. and threw selina into a prison immediately within the occupied state. it was just a chance to put catwoman away and get rid of a MASSIVE thorn in their side, especially if she died.

so when selina says she hates the government, she doesn’t fucking trust them, it’s because they chose to condemn her to a death she turned around and saved them from.

[ahsterism]

i can't resist the allure of pathetic video game men it's true

[flintstruck]

tag drop 001.

✧ ⥼ㅤ — ㅤ❝ i’ll raise you like a phoenix.  ╱  ooc.

✧ ⥼ㅤ — ㅤ❝ the scent of sweat‚ jaws at my throat.  ╱  desires.

✧ ⥼ㅤ — ㅤ❝ a better knife than you are a person.  ╱  ic.

✧ ⥼ㅤ — ㅤ❝   ╱  threads.

✧ ⥼ㅤ — ㅤ❝ made into a weapon and told to find peace.  ╱​  musings.

✧ ⥼ㅤ — ㅤ❝ honey and wildfire are both the colour gold.  ╱  aesthetics.

✧ ⥼ㅤ — ㅤ❝  you’re gonna carry that weight.  ╱  insight & mannerisms.

✧ ⥼ ㅤ— ㅤ❝ i'm sorry. i'm sorry. this may be me at my best.  ╱​  about.

✧ ⥼ ㅤ— ㅤ❝ i can carry it well. it remains heavy.  ╱​  v.001 ; warrior of light.

✧ ⥼ ㅤ— ㅤ❝   ╱​  visage.

[sapphiredhearts-a]

new tags ( twilight / tmi )

[krayat]

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ author. ❫ ››› ㅤ we are bees then﹐ our honey is language .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ promotion. ❫ ››› ㅤ come﹐ little bees﹐ the flowers have your breakfast ready .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ announcement. ❫ ››› ㅤ we must dissent from apathy﹐ we must dissent from the fear .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ prompt. ❫ ››› ㅤ doves and pigeons can also be trained to send messages .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ anonymous. ❫ ››› ㅤ who is this stranger﹐ who comes in the darkness ?

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ continuum. ❫ ››› ㅤ time doesn’t erase the demons we don’t see .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ euphuism. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤi am make - believe. this is an archive. it hurts to be a story .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ episteme. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤanger travels through me﹐ pushes aside everything else in my heart .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ visuals. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤburial by fire is the last mercy: decay is for the living .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ imagery. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤi build a life and i tear it apart﹐ and the sun keeps shining .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ thesis. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤwho am i when i feel ? what dies in me when i am me ?

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ theory. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤbut would you know yourself if you weren’t burning .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ behavior. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤthey made you a weapon and told you to find peace .