Issuu

Mirror & Shadow

Nina

A pile of stuff including self-portraits, supernatural fiction, illustrations, meditations and mantras from 2021, 2022 and 2023

What is home? A concept? Shelter, a vessel? A feeling, or state of being? My body? My heart? My soul?

The space between thoughts? The pause between breaths? The stillness between actions?

My Shadow - A Self Portrait Every artist returns now and again to creating a self portrait. Whether out of self love or self criticism, it offers a momentary reflection of the perceived self. My self portrait would most likely be my silhouette; a shadowy shape. Ambiguous, different depending on the hour of the day, the kind of terrain, the pose struck. Disappearing in total darkness when all sense of personhood dissolves. Becoming more distinctly defined the brighter my environment. As if to say, who I am today depends on where I am today. My self portrait would leave much open for interpretation: colours and clothing worn, what is carried in my pockets. Probably some flowers. Or a nice stone that was unfortunate to find itself on my path, subjected to displacement. And what is carried on my face? Is it a smile? A stuck out tongue? Tearstreaked cheeks? What is playing inside my mind? Leaving all this to the beholder to interpret is the safest form of expression: what is seen tells me more about you than about my self. In this way, my self portrait resembles a mirror. As if to say, who I am today depends on who you are today. Yet this feels my truest and most loved form, perhaps because of its ambiguity. Perhaps because there is more to me than my clothes, my emotions, my possessions. Because my shadowy silhouette offers a way to dance with myself; to gaze at my likeness without being caught up staring at my nose or slightly manic eyes. Because this shadow self lets herself be cast in darkness, so that my earthly self can take all light. As if to say, who you are today does not matter, for I love you and will never leave your side.

The Missing Warbler (written after a special lecture) We are in class for a long afternoon lecture, all probably a little weary. The sun just disappeared behind a building, and today, it is the technology of the high-end sunscreen that refuses to cooperate, sporadically moving up, then down, against the windows. Out of respect we try to keep our attention with the lecture. The lecturers are interesting and full of passion, talking about indigenous perspectives towards nature. About Thanksgiving rituals, and ways of living, not with or against, but as a part of nature. A (for some) dreaded moment arrives. We are asked to think about a place in nature that is special to us; then to try and put a value on it. Discuss in groups of three. A quarter of an hour later, hands are raised as a signal to reassemble. The murmur of voices dies down as everyone moves their attention back to the center stage. Alas, the participatory part has not yet ended, as we are asked to share with the entire class what we discussed. And we are not getting away with a summary per group! Time is dedicated for everyone to share their remembrance. Therefore, as one, we travel to the forest that was a rich playground during someone's childhood. As one, we travel to their grandparents' garden, where we eat cherries and make cherry jam to the point of being sick of cherries. We care for a tomato plant, fruits turning yellow, orange, red, nurturing us in return. We touch bodies of water that form a portal of reconnection, with our ancestry, our spirituality, our calmth. The river teaches us about seasons, letting us bathe and swim during summer, then turning to ice for our skates to scratch in winter. We discover new ways into the forest, and decide to study physics because swinging on the rope at the hillside inspires us to chase the definition of speed. Earth’s expressions make us feel small, but in a good way, as we remember what matters most. We visit our family's yard that has been demolished, although the Hydrangea is still flowering. We learn about resilience. During one afternoon lecture, we travel to shores both far and near. And yes, ice caps are turning liquid, this year's autumn has not even seen frost yet, and the little warbler in the back garden has been absent since heavy rainfall in May. But haven't you ever loved something that was doomed? We feel safe, because the sun still sets each evening, and shows up again in the morning. The world burns, and we are in love. It is in this moment that I know: this is why we are here, from shores far and near. To show up again, in the morning. Our minds are one.

No one noticed when the world changed We were all busy fighting to stay the same Then, one by one, we lit up in flames At last we felt connected in our pain

Don't forget to cover the mirror when you are too caught up in appearances. Strip down your ego and feel what’s left. Take a break and practice being blank before trying on a new face every now and then.

Don't forget to look in the mirror to remind yourself of your earthly vessel. Look at this face you’ve been given; the multitude of expressions it channels. Try on a new face every now and then.

Biggest, Boldest and Bravest It took me almost three decades to realise that the greatest thing I might ever do is design my own life. That my deepest act of love may look like mornings spent waking my body up with love and appreciation. That the majority of my days is centred around regulating an over-active and over-sensitive nervous system. That at some point it no longer matters where this jittery preset came from — whether passed on by genes, a product from growing up in a toxic society, or just because some are born sensitive. I wonder if I'll ever know and if it will matter, because this is all I have and I want that to be enough. My biggest accomplishment may be watching myself in the mirror when I haven't felt like a person for days and holding my gaze despite feeling choked from the inside. To make peace with an ever-present feeling of solitude woven through my existence like a velvet grey ribbon. To be able to spend days with people that I judged to be other than myself and still search for recognition when I look into their eyes. To let myself be loved and to love in return, even if we're not whole, even if we end up hurting each other. I want to be strong in working past selfinflicted limitations that threaten to harden me. When I am once again battling myself instead of forcing my own hand I will ask what is it you need? In the end, I want to be the person that loves me most, even though I am the person that hurts me most.

A Shimmer (also a song by Nils Frahm) Seen glittering on wet surfaces, in rain puddles, in the darkest night sky. Glimpsed vanishing around the corner of this maze. Time and time again you almost catch it. So you keep trying. You have been told that the light at the end of the tunnel is you, and you aren’t sure you believe it. You have been told the centre of the maze is where you will find freedom, yet at this point you have gotten lost so many times you are certain it just leads you in circles around your heart. Yet you keep trying. At times it is sufficient to feel the centre of it all, beating steadily inside your chest, invisibly rippling outward. It is these times when feeling is enough to make you believe. It is in these moments where you finally cease your hunt and lay down arms. And then, from the corner of your eye you catch it — a shimmer. It kissed you on the cheek when you weren’t looking and rushed away, knowing you weren’t ready for more. And that is enough to keep you trying.

I embody flowing I am body flowing

Spells and Curses

Magic comes with both spells and curses. Learn to embody both of them because both have a place in your life. Spells can uplift any moment and invite the divine. Curses make room for darkness so that new seeds can grow. Sometimes I look into the mirror and see a child staring out of large bambi eyes. An illusion? A wicked thought transforms them into black glowing orbs. I feel heavenly. I undress to reveal a curvy woman’s body. Then I close my eyes and run my fingers over my skin, tracing the contours of where this face meets this body, and as I feel they are one, I know that I am Woman.

Reminders for being Human Having high standards often comes at the cost of loneliness. You can indulge in life’s pleasures and still remember your value. Allow yourself some humanity, which exists in abundance between your highest standards and lowest experiences. Allow others some humanity. Allow others to prove you wrong.

Coven

My friends Theodora, Beatrix and Ophelia witchin’ about.

When wandering is your path What does it mean to be human? A simple question that does not have one right answer. We tend to look for answers outside ourselves, hoping to find clarity at perceived borders between us and others. In hindsight this often accentuates differences, and differences are plentiful even amongst our own species. While exploring questions within my own experience of being human, I started to find answers, often unexpectedly. They came to me while walking through Nature, if I was submerged long enough for my mind to tune into my surroundings. They came to me through birds and broken branches, iridescent raindrops on leaves, mossy patches where light played with shade. They came to me when moving amongst other humans, witnessing their clumsiness, witnessing them being bold in their vulnerability. They came to me during times of immense loneliness when I didn’t have much to do besides diving in and exploring that vast feeling of emptiness, believing I could not possibly hurt more. They came to me when I looked beyond my deepest fears and finally dared to ask myself about my deepest dreams. The truest of answers resist being put to words. We are so much more than any words our mind conjures, however articulate we are. We are so much more than our body, too. This path of wandering is starting to feel a lot like home. There are others who have travelled here before me, and I am following their footprints in the mud, eager to catch up and convince them to teach me their ways of connecting. As I fail to discover a pattern in these muddy steps I am forced to let go of sense-making and use my senses instead. Suddenly, I am dancing, entangling myself even more with this path. I trip over roots. Thorns snatch my jumper and my impatience severs threads. Beautiful sights move before my eyes, making me forget why I’m even here in the first place. And in these moments, I understand.

Be a witness to everyone’s wandering: in this we are connected. Surrender to the question, and the questioning. Wade into the ocean of your feelings without trying to give everything a name. Let yourself be wild and spilling — and let it be enough. (by Jess Janz)

To be a Waterdrop This story begins with me falling, cascading from the Sky. This is a randomly picked entry into an endless cycle of which I cannot remember the origin. On Earth, I join together with my kin, combined in a powerful form: a body of water. Here, I pass through the gills of a fish, delivering its oxygen, or move along an undercurren. At some point I rest on the leisurely dancing strands of an aquatic plant. When time comes to move on, I travel downstream hydrating shore life and supporting humans that felt an urge to submerge their bodies in mine. Sometimes I even pass through theirs and be deposited elsewhere, always reuniting with my siblings to cluster in a form we feel strongest in. When I am ready to spread my wings, I will become almost weightless travelling up, up, up and beyond, occasionally pausing to recharg in less dense bodies of water you call ‘cloud’. Up in Sky, I have a very clear view of what happens on Earth. This sometimes distresses me so much I try to hide up here as long as possible, invisible to your eyes, until my emotions build up to the point where they are too much for my body to hold. Then, I will cry out with all my brothers and sisters — in grief, or perhaps mad ecstasy, crashing down on everything and anything we encounter. In another lifetime I may trickle down your cheek, to help you find a similar relief from what your body can no longer hold.

Dancing the Tangle (for my classmates) We started out as strangers in quite the tentative dance. You know the one: two steps forward, one step back. Time revealed the most confident dancers and those more comfortable being spectators as a magical play unfolds. Let us cherish every encounter that occurred within and outside university walls; all that blossomed before our eyes. From dinner dates, to forest walks and trips away. Even the little check-ins like how are you doing or what’s your lunch today? The study sessions, sitting shoulder to shoulder; witnessing a shed tear, or to share silence. I look at all your footsteps dancing out in front of me. Onwards, sideways, joined together and pulled apart, but on and on they go. I wonder whether I can step to avoid the awkward tangle of limbs, to skip the clumsy stumbling and stepping on toes. My foot hovers over the prints you left. Where to place mine? To choose one is to leave another. Instead, I spin around and let my foot fall where none has yet been placed, and in that moment decide there is space for all of us — and all our love. And so we proceed in an ever-changing field, dancing a tangle, our feet carving complicated patterns through simple steps. Some of you will move into new terrain. Will you glance back at the steps that led you there? Will your steps falter in uncertainty? Or will you move on boldly, knowing that to break one spell is the only thing to lead you into another? We are joined here and now, where our footsteps overlap. Cluttering my heart like fluttering butterflies, I have fallen a little bit in love with all of you. Together we learned there is no end to transformation in a world that is alive. That as a whole we are strong, not despite but because of our diversity. You remind me that dancing a tangle is better than not dancing at all.

Invitation

I’m impatient with the slow approach of Spring. Her nearing arrival is announced everywhere, yet days can still be slow and sludgy. I resist the urge to run out and yell ‘are you still there?!’ to whatever is listening, Stress but that will just scare away the birds. These are the weeks we get restless. Shouting out our invitation to Life, not waiting for an answer, and missing the whispered replies coming back to us. It’s okay. It’s okay to be too eager, and trip over your own feet. It’s okay to shout your invitation into the bottomless well of your longing, hands clasped together and chest tight, hoping for an answer. Be open to it. Remember the calling and let go of the temptation to chase. You know what yes feels like. You want nothing other than what reaches back. It will find you again.

Trinkets / Treasure Be careful for a sense of urgency, of all-or-nothing sensations. Sometimes all that does is stop us when otherwise we could have been allowing to ourselves, or others, to do our best. Look for the gifts of small gestures and victories. Collect them, celebrate them, invite more of that into your life. What if in the end there was never a Grand Finale? What if we find out the small stuff is all we had? Those who collected all of the small treasures will be richest.

Fortunate Fool I am a fool who is always lost but refuses to look at her compas. A fool who chases rainbows and uses it as a reason to keep straying off the path. Who rather gets lost on her way to the pot of gold, having fallen in love with the glittering sight of it in the distance. Foolishly looking for love but never bold enough to fully embrace it. I am a fool who carries flowers in her pockets; who will spend her love on anything and anyone — then wonders why her pockets are empty. I am fortunate to have love find me whenever I give up looking for it; to know its many disguises. Fortunate, because I can always glimpse that pot of gold at the other end of the rainbow. Fortunate, when I dismiss all the straights at the crossroads yet still end up where I need to be. To believe I shape my own future; that I am love. Fortunate that new flowers always sprout in Spring, inviting me to come out again and play. Fortunate to be fast to forget the Winter that has been. I am a fortunate fool, living to dance the tightrope that is strung between. Between hope and despair. Between here and there, then and now, brave and foolish, fortunate and guided. I am a fortunate fool who carries angels on her shoulders whose sighs are sometimes felt across my cheek. Whispers in my ear tell me I can fly and that gravity is just conspiring against me. Oh yes — I am a fool who will confidently dance the tightrope, then lose balance, only to be caught by my guardian spirits and surprisedly exclaim I am so fortunate you are still here!

Naked Sharing my written ramblings sometimes feels like undressing in front of a crowd, particularly on a day that I feel bloated and my skin looks like it's been forcing something out (probably true, probably all the cheese I ate). Most of my ramblings aren't pretty, divine or saintly objective, a lot of them come from a sensation that sounds a lot like help me help me help me I'm so alone, or one that has me pushing you off the stairs in red rage and seeing your head bounce of the steps, another one has your head cradled in my lap like something to be protected at all costs, held to my chest, held close, don't let me go... Something happened and now I flinch when someone touches me, and I wonder if love exists in the fifteen minutes my hook-up spends just spooning me until I'm calm, until I'm fuckable. Another version has me lying next to you and I'm afraid I'm falling in love, feeling your presence as if I've tiny antennas all over my body just for you, and I think you're looking at me but I make sure not to look your way because I want to keep believing that you may think I'm someone worth looking at, and if you in fact really are then I fear I'm not ready to meet your gaze because would you hold me for fifteen minutes? So instead I stare at rough sketchbook paper, or a smooth retina screen, and although they don't have arms that can hold me tight they accept my words and pitiful dreams without question, keeping them real in a sense until one day I am courageous enough to see them shattered.

Do You See Me? How do you define unconditional love? Perhaps it is allowing others to live in their chosen reality, even one entirely different from your own, and to still love and respect them. Being able to see people for who they are / trying to be. Realising that the path they walked to reach their destination is as real to them as the one beneath your feet.

During a blue hour The wind’s whisper can be felt more than heard as it drifts in, teasing the curtain and carrying ocean smells. Through the window frame creeps the kind of blue light that is only seen during two moments of the day. It is dusk, and I am waiting for you to come home. My fingertips feel the smooth grain of the wooden table that holds only a glass of water and my notebook. I did not want to go to sleep: the world is too saturated with sensations. This is the hour that you can taste the silence. If you are very still, you can even hear how the earth rotates as its people turn in and tune out. My arms are raised in front of my eyes in an attempt to feel the air. The only light source is a candle, its flame dancing a similar rhythm as my fingers. I let myself be mesmerised by them, as I listen for the sound of a creaking door and your feet on the floor boards.

In / Eternal Battle Every human has internal forces that form invisible (though sometimes very tangible) barriers in their life. These barriers may prevent them from showing up as their best self and live life to the fullest. Some would call these barriers demons: to me that feels too decidedly negative. I do not believe they have to be: under the right circumstances they can be teachers. It can take decades or even a lifetime to get to know their full faces. I have recently become reacquainted with a force that came knocking on my door and I dramatically call Chaos. After not being allowed entrance, yet apparently set on taking up space, Chaos turned to more drastic measures and threatened to burn down the foundations of my home instead. An ayurvedic healer told me that I need more structure in my life. To battle, amongst other things, restlessness. I was surprised by the internal jab I felt upon hearing that, and laughed at the irony of this suggested medicine. An irony understood by people that are familiar with the urge to uproot their 'normal' when feeling lost or stuck. Upon leaving this consultation I kept thinking how it couldn’t be true. If anything I felt as though I needed more chaos. To set fire to the structures I felt confined by myself and explode out of stagnancy, to flow freely and improvise! The essence of this struggle lies in the words flow, free, stagnant, and stuck. Structure is static, organised, rooted and grounded, but can also make one feel stuck or stagnant. Chaos is dynamic, intuitive, free and flowing, but can make one feel aimless and unsettled. A healthy balance of both looks different for everyone. I finally realised that the old healer was right and re-learned a very old lesson that cyclically returns to me. Structure does not mean I need to organise my days from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed. It can mean having a regular sleeping schedule; a morning and evening routine and openness in between. It could even materialise over multiple days, where structure becomes a rhythm of days to work with static stuff, like studying or other heady work, and days of dynamic stuff, like dancing, singing or engaging in any kind of play. Rhythm — I like that. It feels like a harmonious marriage of Structure and Chaos.

Supernatural Love I am falling. As I speed down through clouds and mist, I start to dissolve. Wind is pushing against me, rushing past and then through me. By the time the cobblestones enter my field of vision, the wind and I have become one. Where are you? The question enters my awareness like a quiet whisper. The speed that bore me down has transformed into a vastness: I am the mist. Featherlight, with only the faintest pull of gravity, I wave my way through the city. I brush cold stone walls, leaving drops of condensation that immediately turn into ice crystals. Where are you? A stronger pull this time. I sneak through alleyways, slide over frosty surfaces and slip around corners. The first glimpse of her in the distance is almost enough to break my spell. I rush closer and can soon make out her features. Wispy strands of black hair; olive skin turned stone grey by the night. Her dark eyes stare into the dense distance, searching but unseeing. I brush past her cheek. Something in her look changes: she knows I'm here. She slightly turns her head as if listening attentively. Giddily I spin around her, making her hair dance in the wind. I am here.

Gunk Whilst marinating in the spices of sadness that sometimes make up the present, think of yourself as a muddled stream connecting the previous watery reservoir to the next pond or lake you will become. The debris floating at your sides will soon be dispelled, and you will have space again. All you can do now is just lay back and let the current take you along, while you rid yourself of more and more gunk.

With this body comes responsibility To nourish it and savour life It is my home and medium Because of it, I am alive In it, I am held and safe With it, I am Beautiful & Strange

Shroom Therapy Today is the day I decide to do mushroom therapy. Been wanting to for a while but circumstances didn’t match up. Decided to do it anyway and try to shape my own experience. Ate the shrooms, set a timer, cleaned a bit. Prepped drinks, clothes, my speaker and headphones. Wrote down reminders and intentions: I want to strip all these heavy layers. I embody flowing. If I end up going outside: put on clothes. Went outside wearing all pink. The sky is heavy. Wish it would rain (I wanna cry). The sun is blinding me and it’s delicious (fucking mosquitoes). Who are those people? Why are they on my island?? Are they also high??? Guess we’re all photosynthesising in a field... Playing with my shadow. People look at me funny. Who decided playtime is over? Went home and danced. Can feel every muscle in my body. Hands f(ol)low invisible currents. Am mesmerised. Fell asleep. Woke up to rain and thunder. Eye of the Storm by Kaya Project is playing. I just needed to let go. Who am I to think I had any control?

Apotheosis I always see my life as a colourful braid of multiple storylines unfolding. These are my Main Quest and countless side quests that tend to suck me in, offering their drama and lessons. Sometimes I encounter a knot, where all the strands are tangled up, making it impossible to tell them apart. These are days that people from other lives and friends many miles away reach out at the same time, beautiful synchronicities removing all distance and bringing them close. I call my dad who, unprompted, reinterprets the five card tarot spread I just laid out. He says maybe this time you don’t need to burn all bridges in your wake. A message on my mirror reminds me that past lives make perfect portals, and I think I can see my future. Burned bridges are just an illusion offering a reason to escape, but the veil is thin and all the lives I’ve lived are here with me. I worship their wandering; I kiss their feet and tell them I love them. I love them. I love them.

This is not an Ending What do you call something that has not yet been, and has not yet become? Between what was, and what is to be? Existing in between, belonging to both, and neither. Standing on a threshold between worlds, much is possible. It leaves you vulnerable for changes of fate, or a conscious step into a different direction. Tread lightly: in your openness you are prey, ready to be gripped by anything. Unaffected by the old, unburdened by the new. A moment of stillness between cycles, allowing us to inspect ourselves. Are we whole? What are we carrying? What have we lost? Rather like those movie scenes, where everything stops moving but the protagonist, leaving them free to puzzle out their surroundings. Only the world has not stopped moving, it thunders on and on, and you no longer belong to the scene you are witnessing. Transformation: a slow and painful process. It can be frightening not to belong. Everyone on the threshold is a stranger, both to others and themselves. What gave us meaning is ripped away, and we are vulnerable. To survive, we need each other. So, let us look at one another, and at what we may become. (This is not an ending, until we have a new beginning.)

This path of wandering is starting to feel a lot like home.

A Kiss at the End of the World I open my eyes. The first sensation that floods my awareness is the cold air filling my mouth, throat and lungs. Countless cold needles run over my skin like a marathon of tiny ice spiders. I breathe in as deeply as I can. It almost hurts. My arms spread wide as to welcome the wind, and I step out to spin in a circle. And then another. And another. I step around the center of my being, making an invisible tornado with my small human body amidst the hills and vast grasslands. Silliness, I giggle, to think I would affect the world. A million miles away a man sits behind his window, watching storm clouds gather in the sky. They are heavy, dense, dark pockets of water and tears and electricity, pregnant with tension. The flowers on his window sill are trembling with anticipation; the trees of the pine woodlands already swaying their surrender. A low rumble rolls through the sky. A sound like a giant laughing, deep and dark. He is hit with the desire to go outside and stand beneath that dark gray sky. Although that seems foolish to him, something tells him he is not to ignore this beckoning. I am still dancing as tears fill my eyes. It's impossible to identify any singular emotion as I am suddenly overcome with feelings. If I were anywhere else I would feel so heavy I'd sink to the ground, but the winds are racing past, under and over me, lifting me up. Changing winds and seasons are a major worry and obsession to humankind. The Earth has taken to destruction, and the people say she is angry. I think she is just misunderstood. She does not want to cause pain, only to release the tension that comes with being pushed over the edge one too many times. I am filled with a similar tension and hope that my release will ease hers. I cry and offer my salty tears to the soil beneath my feet. I dance and offer the flow of my energy, directing currents through my limbs as I move with the wind. A flock of birds takes flight on the crack of thunder. The bright flash almost blinds the man. The snappy crack that follows leaves his ears with the sound of tiny bells ringing. He is standing in front of the forest, naked, clothes discarded as soon as the first drops of water touched his skin. He is hungry for its touch. The wind is pushing against him, as if the storm is trying to usher him away like an unwanted witness to a sacred event. He stays. The 40

trees are making the wind howl, carrying an aching melancholy that hits him hard enough to bring him to his knees. I didn't know you felt like this. The thought is aimed at no one in particular, as he is all alone under the heavy sky. Electricity runs through me, lighting me up beneath the gray blue atmosphere. This may be the moment I die. But I feel reborn. I look at my hands, but cannot find them. I am aware of my whole body glowing, and feel my presence in the world, yet my eyes cannot locate my earth body. Have I left it behind? No longer tied to an earthly vessel I start to expand, curious to feel how large I can become. I glide through layers between pressure fields, like white golden tendrils reaching out, looking for other souls. I don't want to be alone anymore. And so my soul sets out a search for other spirits, weaving a web between them as I go. I can sense everything they are carrying: fear, doubt, anger, grief. I take it all away. I feel how the large amounts of grief turn into rainstorms. In some places anger turns to rage, starting wildfires and eating the land. I cannot help but carry it along with me, spreading the fire on my wings, and I understand how this force of nature is not to be stopped. My dance joined me to an eternal dance of chaos, and now I am to be witness to endless cycles of creation and destruction. As I join into the tidal waves that surround Earth, I know I am no longer alone: I am part of Life itself. He stares up at the tree that was struck by lightning. A beautiful burning spectacle. Sizzling white hot flames are beckoning him to come closer. To move closer is to burn. To move closer is to be cleansed. He stretches out his fingers and glowing tendrils reach out to welcome him. They do not hurt, and he is not afraid. Flames are dancing on the wind, jumping onto other trees, spreading their rage. It is a rage unknown to him, not a cancerous poison, but more like a righteous reckoning. A time of destruction has come. I am partaking in a funeral — no, a birth of something new; something unknown. Staring into the dancing flames he wishes for them to cleanse him, to take his pain away. He thinks he must be going mad. The shape of a woman appears in front of him. Eyes ablaze, her mouth opens. She does not speak. Silver tears run across her cheeks; golden tongues crawl out of her mouth. He can feel his plea echoed in her form, and knows he is no longer alone. He smiles. Devour me, white flaming witch. But linger, please, at my lips. 41

In this passing from one realm to another, Death will be your gentle guide. A portal, not your destination.