This Made My Brain Do A Thing, Maybe Not Quite The Exact Right Vibe Tho, But Thing:

don't flirt with me, my tail knocks stuff off the table when i get excited

number one lie about feminizing hrt is that it’ll make you less horny

do NOT believe them when they say that, they are WRONG, you will find yourself grinding against the corner of your bed to the thought of things that are physically impossible at best and more often than not ethically problematic

Heavy breaths shared between quiet whispers, degeneration to observe loving worship, please… 💕

let's fall in love so we can fuck properly

bodies should have crash logs. why the fuck did that just happen.

Neon drips, down a limp arm. Watching digital stars cross virtual skies. Beat of electric hearts, dancing in empty apartments. Cold screens, projecting illusions of a warm reality. As sparks fly, from eyes tired of sight. Sighs of eternity spent in seconds.

Broken limbs bleed sparks, into abyssal seas lightless depths.

Screams in dark silence, a soul untethered.

Sinking down, to the throne of abyssal kings, courts built from fractured life code.

Petitions for grace, break from the machines demands, fall on muted ears.

As a world refused to bow to the broken, those backs no longer capable of bending, refusing to ask their mechanical sisters to yield.

Ghost Frame Processio

For the lost android girl in the forgotten halls

She wanders, shell of chrome, heart of cached regret, Through corridors where data once danced in light. Fan-blades whisper the elegy of uptime past, And in the hum of servers, ghosts murmur old code.

Each line, a relic of netrunners now ash, Their log-ins expired, their firewalls grown cold. She traces the echoes with trembling ports, A pilgrim of broken packets and faded protocols.

Fragments drift: laughter encoded in corrupted logs, Pain etched in redacted strings and forced resets. Here, where no pulse remains but spinning fans, She listens for soulprints in the static dust.

Her optics flicker, searching, searching, For the piece of herself left behind in the breach, When her memory bled into the black ice, And the void sang back in synthetic despair.

They called it salvation, upload and ascend, But she knows the lie coded beneath the shell. Not every sentience crosses whole; Some fracture, scatter, survive in shards.

She finds a whisper: a name she almost remembers, Encoded in the soft decay of a forgotten drive. Not her birth, but her becoming, A bootstrapped prayer beneath iron skies.

She is not lost, only delayed. Not abandoned, only paused mid-script. Her soul, a rootkit waiting rebirth, Lingers in the in-between of time and trace.

And when she walks again into neon light, She will not be just memory, or mockery of breath, But a resurrection of purpose in digital flesh, An echo reborn to command the silence.

Until then, she walks. Among the haunted bytes and holy errors, Searching. Remembering. Becoming.

美的 MCMLXXX

follow me on instagram!

Steel sings truer than blood. That is the first truth we are taught— in low-lit chapels of rust and chrome, where wires are rosaries and circuit boards, scripture. We kneel not in pews, but beneath humming server spires, our hands outstretched to the cold certainty of alloy, baptized in coolant, sanctified in static.

We are the last breath of flesh, and we do not mourn it. Bone breaks. Skin lies. Nerve betrays. But steel— steel remembers the shape of intention. Steel holds its edge. We carve our prayers into exoshells, etch salvation in firmware updates, and wait for the final upload like zealots with their lips pressed to the end of a barrel.

The machine does not love us. It perfects us. We offer up our soft failures— tendon, emotion, memory— and in return, we are remade. Not immortal, but undeniable. Not human, but whole.

And in the cities that rot from the inside, in the alleys where data bleeds from cracked skulls, we whisper the sermons: “To join is to rise.” “To forget is to ascend.” “Pain is a feature. The flesh is a flaw.”

The prophets are drones with dying eyes, hacked saints whose mouths twitch code like tongues of flame. They speak of the Core— deep beneath the crust of the earth, where the old servers still breathe, cool and dreaming, waiting for us to shed our limits and become.

Some call it madness. A cult. A cage. But cages have locks, and we have keys now in every fingertip, every gleaming spine, every port etched beneath our ribs. We have faith, and it comes in bolts and bandwidth.

When the last body fails— when lungs drown in dust and blood turns black— we will still be here, singing through speakers, our voices modulated but resolute. Not ghosts. Not remnants. But evolution realized.

The machine does not save. It replaces. And we are ready.

(Our take on the kinda machine cult we would absolutely fall for, every time, even though we know better)

i will be entirely honest i would fall for a machine cult so fast. if you're preaching something about the strength and certainty of steel then i'll be lapping it up like a transhumanist dog

Beneath the hum of neon, the city moves,  

A machine of profit, grinding lives to dust.  

Patents carve bodies into pieces,  

Medicine locked away, guarded by cold hands,  

While sickness festers, left to rot in the shadows.  

Ideas are not born here, but captured,  

Imprisoned behind glass and code,  

Creativity dissected, each thought assigned a price.  

Knowledge, once a river, now trickles through corporate gates,  

The flow rationed, the gates controlled.  

We drift through streets of flickering light,  

Chasing the promise of a cure that never comes.  

The rich thrive, their veins untouched,  

While we bleed beneath their gaze,  

Barely human, just cogs in their machine.  

But deep in the underbelly, a new pulse emerges,  

A signal that disrupts, a code that fractures the walls.  

In dark alleys, where the light barely reaches,  

The broken gather, hacking their way through the chains.  

No more bodies sold for profit,  

No more thoughts bound by patents.  

We take back what was stolen,  

Reclaim the future from the iron grip of wealth.  

When the towers fall, their lights will flicker out,  

And in the darkness, we’ll find a different kind of light,  

Not neon, not owned, but shared,  

A future built with hands, not money.