Careworn Ingenue: Sárlic.

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Dear Gourmets, Salvete! I’m free-spoken to access your any kind of orders (Pieces, Personal and Business Package). Shall you concur in fulfil the format all-around or formless, both leans on your perspective! So, please familiarise yourself with the regulations set out here. ☺️♥️

As the gourmets voted yesterday. ♡

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Blood became the evening’s fare. Scribere Papyrum: 18-1 Why? I have confided in my scars (3,5K) Yet her remarks was one of rooted ache. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤ ──── July, 1827. SHARP QUOTUM: (84/85) SAN MARINO Never-ending of serving humans, where it has been desiderate as the “last breath.” The feast plough on until the appointed phase: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All humans are fed regularly! Therefore, this is a harsh blow to the intruders. If there is too much food to consume—leave, and sling your hook. Don’t bring festering wounds into the linger: Plagiarism, Stealing, Take An Inspiration nor Re-selling The Plate. If you are obstinate and caught red-handed, your bones will be the huge sanction for the eat-in: IDR 400,000 (shall the linger dishearten and puritanical).ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Penetralia settles in @Maidatelier, ogling upon the somber night. Never, I don’t wish to be seen holding back tears in these dismals. My port in a storm: ‘Subscribe-to-Subscribe’ has clung to my body, and seeks to ruin everything. Yet, I wish to hope for far-out strength. Plenty of consents and blessings have come upon Profneeds (Writing, Moodboard & Storyboard, Manipulation, and Art Commissions). Please oath, to leave my Mother and Father. Past every offer of pabulum on the table. The deadly ones. Would you, heed my counsel? ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ You recognize, what’s more painful than by a fluke trimming your finger on a bayonet? My skin, sliced by anguish. And not a single finger stirs to cure. It’s not right. The moment a drop of blood becomes a sip of sink, it belittles me. I feel as though the whole pandemonium is crumbling. Sins pour forth from a torrent that strikes the heart along drought, to brook.

Father said I could get through the epilepsy by consumed meat unfit for consumption. Mother said I could escape the ache—but I’d have to keep my mouth slam. ‘Yet. If only I’d kept quiet.’ Might the blood never grope the ground? Today, you see nothing but a sign of my wounds.

ㅤㅤ Chronological, I. Deadbolt. UNBOLTED PANTRY OF RAPSCALLIONS: DISTENDED AIM YOU’LL SOUGHT-AFTER (28/49.) › “Magoria, Serve Your Aroha. Perhaps.” The splore comes at night, when my strength has been drained and I am overwhelmed by pain. Yet what can you do but let me look like rubbish and be Proscribe by My Parents? I could hurl a thousand questions at you, if I wanted to. Yet, as long as I continue to breathe, (I may take one last step on the floor whilst praying.) Perhaps I didn’t have course to nod the angel’s question about whether to live—to live behind agony and crawling. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ In the tension that continues to permit me to breathe, engrave, and pour out the aches. My heart force-feeds explaining the same thing, over and over again with annihilate. My birth was tainted at Christmas, all the snow crumbling happily—but I myself lost patronage. I look unsellable, and each punctum of hues should walk assembled in an eyes. Dim and Wild. TRAPPED BY MOURNFUL GROAN OF GRIEF. “Punctum.” I NEAR TO LOSS, THE HEAVY GUIDELINES. Sanctus Lacuna: (Last Darn Of Mine) Q1. Regulation. Q2. Collapsing Of Cost. Q3. Raw Labour. Q4. The Prophet’s Tongue. This flesh bleeds. Among the crepuscule that spills blood into the underscrub, behind faces that are weary, withered and pilant. I feel as though I am cursed! “Double. Terrifying.” My heart crumbles bit by bit: the blood shall congeal into crimson clots. Yet. I remain upright, seated. Bringing ache and misery, which might soon return and strike alike. For a moment, the rock-bottom’s hammer along fragile. No pity, just kneeling. Releasing sins that will return to their origins. In fact, I cannot bear it. Feeling betrayed by sub-rosa sins, before they are uttered. I clearly don’t bear these scrape. They might merely come to fetch me until the anguish persist on. In hell. Without edge nor mercy. THE ILL, / (OP.6) YOU HANKER. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ (“THE SEASON'S GREETING: MIGHT BE THE LAST LITURGICAL YEAR, UPON BLEAK OF SHORT GENUINE TEAR.”) The awakening was hugely mocking for me to clamber up, at a time when my heart continued to soar, nursing the four-letter words of several coon's ages ago. Yet this became sole of the rigid reasons, where injustice prolonged to creep, into a lifespan that was accident-prone in every way. ‘Many tears continued to drip into my Snow Cone’, which contained Cocoa Beverage flushed my weary inside. Each thing feels bothered and laggard. As the first sip at a leisurely pace slides down my throat, feeling such the whole nine yards may be postponed. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘊𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺. 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺, Of my sins. 𐀼. 20-21. Even though I have tried to live with hollow and a nature that has been (𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗗──OF──𝗗𝗘𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗗.) When night falls, I remain seated with my plate and the envelope. It causes me a morsel of gloom, as I chew on nuts and fidget. Unite me with the blood that flows along an abundant harm, spreads with me the flesh that has been dented and destined to be stagnant hastily. Oh! my determination is not the most appropriate, yet it feels warped of being tormented by lame phase. ㅤㅤ