freedom hangs like heaven; etro

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife He doesn’t know what this is, doesn’t have the words for it. He’s never been a particularly smart boy, and the circumstances with which he came about were odd ones, to be sure. Born of men, made of magic and a love that soured before he was delivered, he had grown up alone with only Garbage for company. There had been no one else. And even in his travels, there was no one for long, fleeting conversations that never meant much to either party. And then, the dream, the reality, the cleaving of his mind – an existence too impossible to be true, too true to be impossible. (There was a girl. There was not a girl.) All this to say, he doesn’t know if he wants to worship her or love her, and isn’t sure of how to go about either. All Sleaze really knows is there is a great comfort in the way her muzzle feels against his neck, in the warmth of her. That, when he awoke from falling (from being Elysteria, moments of joy and flight turned to fear and a descent), she was the name echoing in his mind, the one he sought like a solace. But he doesn’t have the words for it. Barely even knows what it is. He’s never been a particularly smart boy. “Perhaps,” he echoes, touching her, “but I don’t think I’m meant to be magic.” He’d give it up in a heartbeat, this queer ability, his mind jumping like a rabbit in a cage. He barely knows himself, to know others as he does is surely a violation. sleaze cancer x garbage

sleaze is being difficult today forgive the lackluster post