“every possible kind of content can be found on the internet” yeah sure except for the One fucking thing I’m looking for. why does no one want to talk about the One Singular thing I’m looking for. but yeah other than that everything is on here.
When you are unemployed, mysterious voices will tell you to “become a youtuber” but you must remind yourself that it’s probably the amulet talking. The amulet you found last week, near the park. It has given you good advice so far, but there is always a line that you shouldn’t cross.
On drinking ixora nectar in the school yard even when told not to, and that too much will cause tummy aches. But still doing it because it’s sweet and nice.
I pluck the ixora flowers one by one, the rest of the schoolyard unaware.
Tiny coral-red clusters soft between my fingers, delicate as a whisper. The petals curl inward, and I know where the sweetness hides. A gentle tug, and the stem releases the bloom into my palm. I bring it to my lips, the habit so familiar it feels like breathing. The taste is honeyed, light, a flicker of sugar dissolving on my tongue.
One is never enough.
I want more.
I reach for another, the motions automatic now—pluck, sip, savor. The nectar hums against my throat, a secret only the flowers and I share.
But as all things do, the world shifts.
A whisper of wrongness curling beneath my skin.
Poison?
I pause, watching the tiny flowers in my hand.
They don’t look like death. They don’t feel like harm. The sweetness lingers, calling me back.
So I take another.
Another.
If this is poison, then what is it doing to me? I wait for something, perhaps pain. I wait for the world to darken, for my breath to slow, for my hands to tremble.
Instead, there is only the quiet rustle of leaves, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the taste of nectar still laced on my lips.
Maybe the ixora has embraced me, its poison can’t touch me. Or maybe I just haven’t had enough.
I pick another. And another. The sweetness coats my mouth, a defiance, a test, a question with no answer.
If poison sings like honey, I had unwittingly become it’s audience, allowing it bloom in my blood.
university is like a video game. you can pick up sidequests. Youre gonna neglect the main storyline. youre gonna end up in a guild of sorts. i just looted a bush on campus and found a sticker
Like a small cafe on the street of strangers– that’s love… its doors open to all. Like a cafe that expands and contracts with the weather: if it pours with rain its customers increase, if the weather’s fine, they are few and weary… I am here, stranger, sitting in the corner. (What color are your eyes? What is your name? How shall I call to you as you pass by, as I sit waiting for you?) A small cafe, that’s love I order two glasses of wine and drink to my health and yours. I am carrying two caps and an umbrella. It is raining now. It is raining more than ever, and you do not come in. I say to myself at last: Perhaps she who I was waiting for was waiting for me, or was waiting for some other man, or was waiting for us, and did not find him/me. She would say: Here I am waiting for you. (What color are your eyes? What is your name? What kind of wine do you prefer? How shall I call to you when you pass by?) A small cafe, that’s love…
