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GM Ohm

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Ohm 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋

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𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋

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𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝, 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜. 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖'𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜.

𝙾𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐-𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝙰𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝙼𝚊𝚌 𝙶𝟹 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟷, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏. 𝚂𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜. 𝙾𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗. 𝙿𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚎.

𝙽𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎-𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗. 𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚢-𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍-𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑, 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜.

𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

@Synonym

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A camera around his neck, Lin was there again, amongst the lost things, of which he quietly counted himself a part of.
He felt washed, then folded -
 
and finally forgotten about,

- like an old pair of jeans. Was he clothed this time? Yes, thankfully. He would need to wrap himself in thin threads of sanity to endure the seams of r e  a   l    i     t      ystretching. Lin was worn out, it was as if he were a subject in a photograph that was being passed around. His life was a series of stills viewed in fast succession and now he was there again, The Room.

Itwasgoldenhour,athinflareoflightfilteredthroughthecurtains,softlycuttingthespaceintwo.Astringtiedtotheceilingfandancedbetweenthelightanddark.Linleanedforwardandblewatsomesadspecksofdustsuspendedinthebeam.Theywereweightless,slowlydriftingwithintenttowardsthecolonyonthefarsideoftheroom.Hisinterferencehadforcedthemoff-coursetosomewhereunintended.Lindesiredtocontrolhisenvironment,hedecidedtobecomeakingtoday.

Lin lifted the room, as if it could be held in his hands, framing it within the viewfinder of his camera. It fixed perfectly into place and he snapped a photograph. The flash bleached the room causing the perpetually dangling string to freeze for a fleeting moment. Lin held the film and gave it a slight, absent shake but it wouldn’t develop. Instead, it disintegrated into thin fibres and settled amongst the grime.

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A king should dress the part. Lin grabbed the upholstered chair but it resisted his grip, unexpectedly heavy with dampness. He swivelled it into the sunlight, where it seemed to cough under the strain. He moved quickly, pulling the book from the red robe then wrapping it around his shoulders. He sat down and crossed his leg over the other, despite the chair itself protesting beneath him. Lens flare caught his face as he opened the book, raising a hand into the light. Lin stirred the speckles, drawing them into motion before casting it all outward toward the silent instruments. Let them perform, he thought. 
Let the dust bunnies rise for his coronation.


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Ohm 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋

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𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋

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𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚏𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑—𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑.

𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝚈𝚎𝚝, 𝚊 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚌𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝙰𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠, 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎, 𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚛, 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚠𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢. 𝙾𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛. 𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛-𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍-𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

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a  s e c o n d  a g o...

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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╓╔▒╬░░░░░░░░▒▒▒╠╠╠▒╗▄░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╓╦╬░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╬░░╠╬╠╠╬╬╬▒▄░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╓▒╬░░╠░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╬░░╠╬╠╬╠▓▄░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╓╬╬╬░░░░░░░░░the░░░░░░░░░░░░╠╬╠╬╬╠╠╬╬▓▓▄░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╓╬╬▒░╠░░░░░░░░░░room░░░░░░░░░░╠╬╠╬╠╬╠╬╬╬▓▓▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╔╠▒▒░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╠░░╠▒╠╠╠╬╣▓╣▓▓▓▓▄░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╔╬╬▒▒▒░╬░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▒╠╠╬╣╬╣╣▓▓▓▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╫╠╠╬╬╠▒░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╬▒▒╠╠╣╣▓╬╬╣▓▓▓▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐╠╠╠╬╬╬░╠░░╩░░░░╔╦▒▒░░░░░░░░░╓╔▒▒▒╠╬╠╬╬╠╬╬╬╠╣▓▓▓▓▓▓─░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐║╬╬╬╬╣▒╬╬╬╬╬╬╬▒╬╬╬╬╬╬╬╬╬▒▒╬▒▒╬╬╬╣▓╬╬╠▒▒▒░░╠╬╬╬╠▓▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐╠╬╠╠╣╬╬▒╬▓▓▄▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▒╬╠╬╠╠╬╬╠╬╠╣▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓╬╬╠╬║▓▓▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐╠╬╬╬╠╬╠▒▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓╬╬╬╩╙╚╠╣▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓╬╬╣▓▓▓▓▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐╫╬╬╠╠╠▒▓▓▓▓▓▓"FUCK▓▓▓▓▓╬╬╠░░░░╠╬▓▓▓▓THIS"▓▓▓▓▓╬╬╣▓▓▓▓▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐║╬╬▒╬╬░╣▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓╣▒░╠▒▓▓╬╬╠╬▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓╬╣╬╬░║╣▓▓▓▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐║╬╬▒░╬░║╬╬╬╬▓╣▓▓▓▓╣░╩░▒║▓▓▓▓╣╬╚╣▓▓▓▓▓╬╬╬╬╩╠╩░║╬▓▓▓▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐╬╬╬░╠░╚╬╬╬╬╠╠║░▀▀└░░░╫▓▓▓▓▓▓░╠╬▒│╙╙▀▀╬╬╬╬░░░╣▓▓▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▓╬╬▒╠░░░░░░░╓╓╦▒▒░░░░▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓║╬╬▒▒▒▄▄╬▒▒▒╬╠╬║▓▓▓▓─░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╙╬╬▒▒░░░▓╠╠╬╣▓▓╬╬░░░▓▓▓▓▓║▓▓▓▓▓▒╬╬▓╬▀▓╠╬╬╬╬╬╠╬╣▓╬▓▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░║╬╬╬▒▒╣▒▒▒╬╬▒▒▒╙╙░░▒▓▓▓▓║▓▓▓▓▒▒╠╠╬░▒╠╬╬╬╬╬╬╬╬╬▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╙▓▓╬╬╬╬╬╠╠╬╬╬▒▒░░░░╚░╙╬╬▒╠╬╬▒║╬▒╠╬╠╬╠╬╬╬╬╬╬╣▓▓▓▓▀░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╠╠▓▓╬▓▓▓╬╬╬▒░╠░░░░░░╙░░╙╩╙╙╠╬░╠▒║╬╠▓▓▓▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╙╬║╬▓▓▓▓╣▓╬╬▒╠░░░░░░░░▐░╠░░░║░░╬╠▒║▓▓▓▓▓▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╙╬╬╣▓╬▓▓▓▓▒░░╠╦▒▒╦▒╔╗╬▒▄╝▒▒╩▓▄╣▒╣╣╣▓╣▓▓▒░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╣▓╬╬╬╫▓▓▓▒▓╬╙░╠░░╬░░╚╬░░╠▒░║░╠▌║▓▀▓▓╣▓▀░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╙╬╠╬╚▓▌░░░░▒░╠░▒╠▄▒▒▒▒▄▄▒▒╣▄╬▓╣╣╣░┌▓▒▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░║╬╠░╠╬╦░╝╝╩╚░╚╠╚░░╬▓░░╬╣░╬▓╬▓░▓▄▓▓╣▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░║╬╬▒╠▒▒░░▒▒╠░░╣▒░░╠▓░░▒▓░░╬║▓░░▓▓╬╣▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▐╬╬╬▒░╠╠▒▒╠╬▒╬╣▄╠▓╬╣╬╬║▓╬▓▓╣▓▓╣╣╬╣▓▓░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╬╠╬╬╠▒╠▒░░╠░░╠╠╬░░╬╬░░╬╬░░╣▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╬╬╠╠╬╬╬╬║▒▒╬╬╣╬╬░╬╠╠╠░╬╬╠▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▌░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╙▀╚╬▒╬╬░░╚░░╙╙░░╚░░░╠╬╬╬╣▓▓▓▓▀└░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░╙╝▒▒░░░░░░░╓╦▄╔▒▒▒▒▒▒╠╬╬▓▓▓▀▀░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░
╙╙╝╣▓▓▓╝▀▀▀▀▀▀╝▓▓▀▀╙░
An aperture shut abruptly, stretching Lin atop his throne into another section of the room's rolling labyrinthine tunnels, his red cloak fluttered with the transition. Its new facade came into focus, a viscous pool of putrid ink with a surface of swirling smokey motifs similar to a psychological test. It was a space as dark as brain-matter and Lin was a thought forming within its murky membrane. As he sat in the chair, his chest chimed, Lin's rib cage was being played like a glockenspiel. He lifted his hand, spools of skin unraveled from his fingertips, he gasped a breath so deep his lungs gently imploded. Flesh flayed from his frame like ribbons that wove around his camera into the darkness. He snapped upright, allowing the tome to slip from his other hand and splash into the shallow swamp with a swallowed sound. A dull light burst from his bones, pulsing with a power that fluttered his cape and rippled the mire.╝░░░░▓▓▓╚ 
░░▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ 
░░░░▓ 
░▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▒▒ 
▓▓▓▓▓▓▒▒▒▓ 
░╬▓▒╠ 
▓▓▓▒▒▓▓▓▓▓ 
▓▒▒▓▓▓▓▓▓╚ 
░╬▓▓▓ 
▓▓▓▓▓▒▒▓▓▓ 
▓▓▓▓▒▒▓▓▓▓ 
╝╬▒▓▓ 
▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▓▓▒ 
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▒╚ 
░╬▓▓▒ 
╬▓╠ 
▓ 
╬ 
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Lin existed as 
a mind without senses.

Had he been consumed by an otherworldly creature? He wondered, could the room be such a beast? Was wandering its corridors a path through its stomach?
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Figures formed in the shadows, silhouettes that steadily approached Lin’s skeleton. Were they agents of his annihilation? Though his body had disintegrated, Lin’s mind belled within his hollowed skull. His will pressed outward and a bony finger answered with a twitch. The stalking shades, dawned in spectral medieval gear, steadied in threateningly. He knew better than to confront them so he demanded himself to step forward and his femur obeyed. The clanking movements of his remnants were clumsy. Lin lost his balance, his knee buckled and he collapsed into the black water where he lay unable to puppet any longer.

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Ohm 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋

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𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋

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in 211 days

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"𝙻𝚘! 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!" 𝙰 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚁𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑, 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛!"

"𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜," 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜. "'𝚃𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑. '𝚃𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎!"

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. "𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐," 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍, 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜.

𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑, 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑—𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛. 𝚄𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚜, 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛.

𝙰 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑, 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢, 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖.

𝙰𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙵𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝. 𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚙.

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗, 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 '𝟷𝟷:𝟻𝟿'. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐.

𝙱𝚞𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗—'𝟷𝟸:𝟶𝟶'. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜.

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▗▟ ▞ ▝ ▚ ▞▝ ▘ ▝ █ ▗ █ █ ▛ ▟ ▞▖ █ █ ▜ ▗  ▟ ▝▟ 
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█▘▟█▖ ▟█ █▜▛ ▜▜▛ ▙▜▞▙▛▜▛ █▟ ▛ ▚▘ ▛ ▛▚▗ ▛▛▞█ ▛▙ █▝ ▛▜ ▗ █▛ ▜ 
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The dark knights of the mire and their mob moved in menacingly around Lin like a vignette. He lay vigorless, contemplating the reality that he could vanish into the enclosing darkness and if so, his effort to map the rooms would go to waste. The crowd’s voices murmured into a mumble like sea in a shell - for a moment, Lin floated on their downward spiral, he felt the room as a construct, spinning compartments that met in a middle somewhere he hadn’t accessed. He was barely aware of his assailants attempts to harm him. The scene had faded to black.

A falling pile of flickering fliers and pages flapping tore open the beast’s belly, a pure white flock of words descended like dreams in delivery. They lit up the recesses of Lin’s hollow skull with a great idea, sounding a concept that reverberated along his jaw - a dark frame and a pillar of light, “c o m p o s i t i o n” he said.
▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒The shadowy apparitions that surrounded Lin disintegrated up on hearing it - his camera became animated with life and snapped a photograph. The room filled with paper until it totally whited out. Lin drifted in the overexposed space aware of another person’s eyes branding him like burning film. Startled birds, the papers flapped again, then wrapped around him, their words became bandages that rebuilt his flesh.

In a new room with his body intact, Lin took a moment to decompress, as a photographer, he was comfortable in dark rooms. He whipped off the damp red cloak and tossed it onto the floor. Ignoring an alarm sounding in the room, he pulled a stack of polaroids from his pocket and spread them across the table, each one represented an individual room, fragments of framework in the structure of a spiral. He positioned them into a maze, using his finger to trace his path from the sunlit room to the writer’s room.
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Lin picked up a digital clock from the table, wondering if there could be a way to manipulate the next sequence of events, he reset it to 11:59 and placed it back down.

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