An Anti-heroin with a thousand faces, weaving tales like mist over the open sea. As the falling angel whispers to open the gates to the cold, dead and flaming goal at the end of spiral of violence. Under the darkened moon, she sharpens care and connection. She ties you up, binding hands and feet, your head exposed to the elements. "Why don't you stop?" she asks. I'm not here for fun. Disia
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Now submit. Submit. Sub mit. To the hours, the stairs the uncertainty of the floor tilting beneath your raised foot. To echoes of whirling voices, dissonance and rain bouncing on borrowed graves. To pushing, pausing wondering if this holds meaning or sympathies for floppy haired fascism. We do…