Map of Los Vegashington

The history of VL from my webcomic series TIB.

my rough sketch of ship i drew a while ago

While we are driving and “off to the races” is playing I speak against the windscreen, let her know that that song is my whole sexual orientation, like turning over a card. He listens, that’s settled.

(I’ll wash it all off, the ‘before him’, the dirt and cheapness, wash it all off, in those gigantic bathrooms in candle light colours overlooking the cities, because he doesn’t know, I’ve touched it, too.)

For a spring and a summer, I will be proud as Lucifer. He made the crucial decisions, all of them, otherwise it never works. And I follow. He will love my education, my class and grace and my music, how I play guitar, how I can listen to his music and hear where it can be better without him ever admitting to it. I will come to the studio and sing “too late” by Carol King, playing the Steinway, and he will love it regardless of its words. Back in LA. he will quickly forget all that’s cheap and easy and safe because they had all been the same, with their itchy plastic underwear in its light pink packages, printed with Edwardian script (overpriced, bought on sale), with their little bondage games, they thought they had to like, and a world of rabbit ears and plastic lace and black and white and pink, their prematurely-oh-so-adult bodies hidden under their girl fancy dress. They’d melt under LA’s surgical eyes.
“So here - it is you” he says. I know this is temporary as much as spatial, and they had just been looking for something, too, and I have envied them, so wholeheartedly, but I could never fall for the cliches and easy patterns, the safe words and platitudes, the generic terminology, the props. Although I tried. Only here I don’t play, only here I am, and follow. Until one day I will outgrow even his words and his music, and his vanity will make this about me; him needing a change. And it will be rainy and I will leave on an economy ticket, and the asphalt world will welcome me like my parent’s songs. Absences stitching me like knifes. But for one summer he will choose dare.

NOCTURNA | ASTRYX

COMING SOON

2025.03.25

“Tired of Reality and Fictional Overlaps”

She is tired of reality, and the fictional reality that overlaps with it “Her Future and My Fictional Reality” Volume 1

Read more: https://myanimethoughts.com/she-is-tired-of-reality-and-the-fictional-reality-that-overlaps-with-it-her-future-and-my-fictional-reality-volume-1

#tired #reality #fictional #overlaps

She is tired of reality, and the fictional reality that overlaps with it “Her Future and My Fictional Reality” Volume 1

beginning of march :

there’s a wistful calm in my soul, finally for once. the sweet scents of my past keep coming to me, giving me hope that this moment may one day feel that same way to me once it’s passed. i feel buoyant, i feel like light.

i don’t feel like i need to over romanticize my life; it just feels a lot more romantic because im allowing myself to be free & loving. i let myself be mad when im mad, sad when im sad. that freedom really reduces the amount of mad or sad i feel. the alignment of life is feeling very subtle and strong, altogether. i feel bound together like a book, worlds of amusement hidden behind my walls.

i’m seen, i’m heard. i hear me and i see me in everything i do. i don’t feel like a false version of myself. i don’t feel my soul reverberating with obsessions. my thoughts flow from one to the next, i don’t cyclone myself into insanity with my own tedious need for control or lack of control. i think someone would call that whimsy.

the best part is, i think truly i’d feel this way without the new found love in my life. it’s the perfect enhancement for how i already chose to feel. it just slipped right in, without much effort. & it works exactly how it’s supposed to work. slow unraveling, steady desire. there’s no highs or lows. just even tempered consistency. no frenzy, no stealing. no yearning. just admiration. just thinking. just wondering, curiously.

what a wonderful year it’s been so far. i can’t wait for more.

the colorful cast of asamvattáks

i had this little writing project in the start of 2024 where i was busy writing these “god"s having conflicts and fighting against each other. from what i know, this project was called "sinárret”, and the first lines was just azrion wanting (and eventually) killing nimvra

fejtelen, the decapitated
azrion, the arrogant, apparently azaeloth’s son
dormir, the sloth
samisnk, the whatever-the-hell

More fictional stories need genocidal/evil democracies. I don’t mean some shit like “behind the scenes” type genocides or just 1:1 of American-Native relations or some psuedo-democracy, I mean like fully functioning democracies where people are voting in accordance of who will be the best butcher

Random ass dialogue exchange between my babies from my (other) pet project

I don’t even remember writing this-

BEATRIX

At the recommendation of my friend Emm, I watched Arcane, a show that to be quite honest I never in a million years would have watched on my own for a lot of reasons. One, is that it’s based on League of Legends stuff, a game I don’t play and game adaptations tend to be totally awful but also it’s a game with one of the most toxic fan bases on Earth so I just had a natural aversion to it. And of course, I don’t do much TV and tend not to like TV recommendations but sometimes you just want to impress someone or are in just the right mood and she mainly talked about the art style and the experimentation with animation and that did appeal. Anyway, I watched the first episode and the use of Art Deco and Art Nouveau were enough to hook me and I immidately had theories about the choices but ultimately I think Art Deco just always looks vaguely futuristic when you’d doing anything with a retro futuristic aesthetic and it makes sense the poorer part of the city would use a counter and older style, though it’s interesting that Art Nouveau is associated with poverty in this even if run down Art Nouveau does fit for some reason.

Anyway, I ended up really liking the show and my favorite character was Jinx, who was a very well written… villain I guess. She’s a terrorist certainly. I know she was well written cause she broke my heart a couple of times and I could always see it coming because I am not new to pop culture. But I did want her to be ok and be better even though I could see bad decisions coming in season one. I didn’t know if I would like her because I tend to not much like Joker characters, a thing a lot of franchises seem to need to have. I like the Joker, though kind of dislike the pop culture obsession with him as well because he is a good villain but not that interesting a person, and I feel most franchise’s version of him is always a little worse and makes me roll my eyes. They got obnoxious. Not Jinx though and I think maybe that is what is most impressive about the show, that there is nothing truly new here, every character feels very much like a classic archetype and the dynamics are all things we’ve seen before, the show feels very familiar in a way that probably makes a lot of sense given it’s based off a non narrative video game, you need types that people can latch on to. But the thing is the execution is so damn good that it’s really compelling. Jinx might be a type but it’s so perfectly done that I was very compelled by her. Anyway, at one point I was like, “Is it ok to be this attracted to Jinx?” I still don’t know the answer but I am and I liked the show so I am posting her. Today I want to fuck Jinx.

please let me know who you are. (JACK SALLOW)

NOTE: Just a lil short story that I thought about while writing my F1 novel lol, currently just writing this as I go BEJKSBKJEGSBKG have fun also I might do a part 2 of i feel like it

“She’s haunting me, and honestly I’m honored to be haunted by the likes of she.”

I was 15 when I met my first girlfriend.

I was still hunting down that Formula 4 crown and trying prove that can race in the bigger leagues. I already got some good points in my last season, and hopefully this is my year.

Pops only comes around my races from time to time. It’s Mum who points out my mistakes in my races and what I should focus on instead of driving recklessly. I don’t blame Pops for only seeing me race like twice a year… I think being a MotoGP racer takes a lot of commitment anyway. I just try to calm Penny down whenever she feels like being upset over him.

But right now? It’s winter. Everyone’s resting for a month or two and I get to do whatever I want right now. Penny’s begging me to braid her hair, so I do that right away. Right over middle. Left over middle. rinse and repeat until Penny’s hair is fully braided.

I hear a lorry moving in from the outside. I shouldn’t be bothered by it right now, but Penny hangs out with her friends in this town and she knows everything. Proof is when she stood up and ran for the window with a gasp. “Mama! Papa! Our new neighbors are here!”

Right. The house next door had been empty for a while; The family living there moved out just to have some fresh start in life. At least that’s what Pops said to me. Just after my race in September, Penny told me that her friend told her that the house next door was sold. Mom confirmed the same thing. Penny spent the whole month wondering who our new neighbors would be and if they have someone she could be playmates with.

I don’t really know if I could be friends with them, though. Not when I do racing on the side.

Before I knew it, Penny took her pink coat. “I’ll head out to say hi!” She exclaimed.

“Oh, watch out, Penny! It’s cold outside!” Mom, who was at the kitchen making hot chocolate, was about to set everything down to go after her.

“I’ll go, mum. I’ll watch over her.” I immediately said, standing up to wrap my head with a beanie my mum knitted last year and the black coat that was hanging beside Penny’s just a moment ago.

The cold hit me like a slap on the face the moment I step foot outside the house. “Penny!” I call out, spotting a small figure. “Penny, you need your scarf-”

I turn to look over to the lorry that just arrived. It’s open, and I can see boxes in there as well as furniture that I know is there to tell me that they are, indeed, the new neighbors.

I put my hands to my pockets as I watch two men, one who looked like he’s just out of college and one with greying hair, walk out from the house to take more things from the truck. The younger guy glanced at me, or to Penny as well, before giving us a friendly smile and wave. I politely smile back, just to help them settle in to this new place.

I glanced towards the house, and there I spot a girl who had her hands on her coat pockets the way I did right now. I haven’t seen many people like her, because she had ginger hair that’s straight and falls down to her shoulders, and She had a look that I couldn’t quite read.

A woman who had brown hair walked past her from the door, and then spots the two of us.

I have a feeling she’ll come over and greet us like she’s the one welcoming us to her home.

And just like that, my intuition was right. “Hello, you two! Oh, how you look so lovely. What lovely green eyes!”

I laughed sheepishly. “Hello, Mrs…” I trail off, because I didn’t really know their names. Neither did Penny, by the looks of it. “I’m Jack Sallow. My sister here’s Penelope, but I call her Penny. My parents are inside. We just wanted to see the new neighbors.”

Nice and Simple. Hopefully that comes across as diplomatic.

“Oh, we’re the Carters, Jackie. You can call me Florence, okay? And tell your parents to come over for dinner! We would love to get to know our new neighbors!”

“I wanna have some cake!” Penny said out of the blue.

“Penny-”

“Oh, don’t worry dear, we’re going to buy some delicious cake for you later, Okay?”

I find myself darting back to the girl, only to realize that she’s gone. Definitely went inside by now. “I’ll tell my parents about it. I’m sure they’ll welcome you to this neighbourhood.”

“Wonderful! Now we’ll leave you two be, it’s getting cold nowadays.” She gave a sweet smile before waddling back to their new house.

I went back to tell Mum and Pops about the while thing, and sure enough, Mom cooked something nice and simple for the dinner while Pops made sure to look presentable and wear something that doesn’t bear his MotoGP team logo.

I think it didn’t help. The moment our famile steps inside the Carter’s residence, the young guy with quite some red hair gasped and had to do a double take. “Aren’t you- you are-”

“Arthur Sallow, yeah. You know me, kid?”

“I’m Stephen. My friend in College got me watching MotoGP and Formula 1. You’re a legend!”

He shook his hand a little too long. Pops laughed as Mrs. Florence Carter got my mother comfortable as she sets down food onto their table. I follow her in before Pops starts bragging about me being a Formula 4 driver.

And there I found her again. We’re here, face to face now, so I had to take this moment. “Hello. I’m Jack.”

“I’m Sophie.” She sounded unsure by the way she spoke.

“Oh, don’t worry about him, Sophie. Jackie seems nice.” Mrs. Carter turned to me. “She just needs some adjusting, so… She might be shy.”

I nod. “I understand.”

Dinner went by well. Pops did indeed talk about me being in F4 and aiming for F1, with Mr. Carter, the dude with greying hair, noting that he’ll watch me and say that the future champion was once his neighbor. Mum and Mrs. Carter start talking about the best places to shop around and what stuff our other neighbors liked. Penny’s happy eating the strawberry cake once she’s done with the main course.

But I awkwardly glance at Sophie from time to time. And she would awkwardly look at me. I had to say something.

“What do you do in school?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“Like- what do you enjoy? Maybe you have some hobbies that we share.”

She looked down, suddenly deep in thought. “I mean, I like to play the piano. We had to leave it back in Manchester, so…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

And just like that, we’re silent again.

We’d finished our food and we took our dishes, wishing the Carters well with adjusting to thw new neighborhood. I helped Penny wirh the toothbrushing before it was time for her to sleep. I don’t feel like being bothered by my parents, either, so I’m pretty much stuck in my room for the rest of the night. I kept the light on as I sink into the softness of my bed-

I hear whistling.

I sat up, looking at where the source of the whistle was. My window shows me that there was an open light at the house across to mine. The Carter’s houses. And beyond that window, I can see a figure. Red hair with long hair.

Sophie.

I stared at her for a while, hearing her melodic whistle. I can’t quite make it out to be some kind of nursery rhyme or any sonfs that I know, but it sounds… Nice. Serene.

Like it makes me feel like I’m longing for something.

And I didn’t know it, but that somethinf I longed for? It’s in her possession.

But for now, I switched off my lights, heading back to sleep with the whistle stuck in my head for days.

My F1 Story! (Prologue + First 3 Chapters)

Hello! I escape from the cave to tell you again that my story’s coming along well, and I’m already so far ahead that I think I can send y'all the first few chapters of this thing! I don’t even remember when I first started this manuscript but as of rn, I’ve written 24,410 words and 17 chapters! Y'all are free to read my manuscript and tell me what you think so far! Enjoy!

This is srsly the first time in a while that I’ve committed to being a writer of a full story as I have made short stories for the past few years, so I really hope I get to finish this and find a way to publish this to the world!

NOTE: I’d say this is in rough shape so far, and I may have to change some stuff after I finish my rough story to see how I could improve it.

Portalatin_Manuscript (BETA).pdf

Kenneth Lim - # 28 [FICTIONAL F1 CHARACTER CONCEPT]

Dreams come true to those who truly want them. - LIM

Name: Kenneth Lim (English), Lim Hyunwoo (Korean)

Birthday: August 17

Age: 23

Hometown: Busan, South Korea

Physical Description(s):

• 5'6 height
• Has black hair and eyes
• Chubby cheeks
• Is double jointed on the elbows
• Once dyed his hair blonde

Connections:

Lim Minseo (60, Father)

Lim Seoyeon (55, Paternal Aunt)

Lim Miyoung (60, Mother)

Lim Hyuna (30, Older Sister)

Hans Muller (20, Friend)

Career Description:

Team: Cobra Sterling

Previous Team(s): N/A

Years of Racing in F1: 1 year (22 when he first joined

Championship(s): N/A

Other Achievement(s):

• Formula 3 Champion

Biography:

When Lim Hyuna decided to conquer the world through K-Pop using the stage name “ALI”, her younger brother decides to get into the world of Motorsports.

Kenneth love for cars sparked when his friend got him into watching MotoGP, but his true passion came about when he started karting with some more of his friends. His father see his talent, and knowing that he had to go out of the country to explore his opportunities, he sent him with his aunt to Europe to be able to race in Karting. He was fortunate enough to be able to compete in Formula 4.

It was in Formula 2 when he first met his rival and eventual friend, Hans Muller. At first, he hated him because of the way he wins more races than him, but after spending the summer break playing games and eating at the Mullers’ residence, they gained an unbreakable bond. Their rivalry was just as fierce though, but when Muller made his Formula 2 championship, the two were signed into two different teams in the same year.

Now that Kenneth’s rookie year is over, Kenneth seeks to be promoted to Sterling in order to improve his performance, as well as beating Hans for the Championship before he could get it first.

Personality:

• He spends his down time listening to music, and a lot of his sister’s K-Pop songs are included in his playlists.
• He’s rather nonchalant off-track, but when he’s driving, he can get a little passionate and can express frustration on his engineer.
• He always talks about Hans when asked, sometimes spilling his secrets when he’s not around.
• His sister teaches him how to dance sometimes, so when he was asked to perform something, he’s not shy to display his dancing skills.
• When it comes to the person he likes, he’s rather confident, sometimes unashamed whenever he’s being flirty with them. (Like legit he might feel happy if they fold)

What do we think the most romantic thing is? Like what’s the most romantic thing to say to someone. Because I hear two phrases the most often, both in writing and in what I’ve heard said.

(I love you so much) I’m willing to die for you vs (I love you so much) I’m willing to kill for you.

You hear them a lot, or maybe you’ve read it before. Even if you haven’t, I doubt that they’re phrases you’ve never heard before. Surely you’ve at least heard a variation of the phrase(s) : “Take a bullet for you, get revenge for you, etc.”

But which is more romantic?
Or really, is either truly romantic?

In my opinion they aren’t all that romantic, or loving, or affectionate ; not as much as people make them out to be.

Saying “(I love you so much) I’m willing to die for you” sounds exhilarating at first. Because wow, this person is willing to give up their life for you, this person is willing to die for you, to give up their one mortal life. But then, at least when i think about it, I find there to be more selfishness in than there appears.

Because death is final in most cases, that’s it, you’re gone. Life is over and the counter stops. Dying for another person means leaving them, and often this means leaving the other without that person they loved so much. It branches out of just a lover dying for their partner, a sibling for another, a parent for their child, hell friend for a friend, the list goes on.

In a lot of cases, fictional or otherwise, I’ve seen that this just leaves one person in grief and mourning. Agony can overtake that person’s life, even guilt could grow if a person is left to believe that the other person might still be here if it wasn’t for them. In some cases, whether acted upon or not, the consensus is that if one were to die the other would surely follow as they could not live without the other.

SO, there’s that one, “(I love you so much) I’m willing to die for you” sounds nice in the moment, it holds weight if you mean it. But then again if you mean it then one is likely to act upon it. If that happens, there is surely aftermath that weighs heavy on whoever is left.

Then what about stating “(I love you so much) I’m willing to kill for you.” also has an effect. Saying that sounds more amazing in a sort of way, for many I’d imagine that murder is a foreign concept. It sounds more dangerous and wild, it presents a sort of commitment to me that the person who said it values the other person that they’d hurt others for their love. But it also seems a bit more crazed to me, and thinking about it more really makes me wonder.

Is it loving and affectionate? Really? It seems scary, it leaves me with questions, is that blood also on your hands now? By default, that person wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for you, right? Its safe to assume that maybe the previous bond hadn’t been built, if the affection and love for you hadn’t formed then maybe someone wouldn’t have lost their life.

Also, it can leave the other person, the one is having the statement directed towards them, alone. Its safe to assume that a murderer might be caught, arrested, and held accountable. This will likely result in leaving a person alone now as due to the angered, and possibly rash, decisions of another they are left without someone dear to them. They can dwell on guilt and regret and even anger at the other for making the decision to leave them alone like this, a sort of abandonment. (Can also happen in the other case, now that I think about it) Furthermore, I think that perhaps this one would be difficult to get over and forgive for the reason that loving the person wouldn’t be impossible anymore, but difficult. They’d be separated because of those decisions.

SO, then the phrase “(I love you so much) I’m willing to kill for you.” also means a lot, its a heavy statement to say. But saying it and acting on it are two different things, but it also sounds more crazed and violent than the other does.

I also think a lot of people already have thought about these statements and their tones. If not, then reading them now gives you more of a tone. I am definitely partial towards one over the other in the way I imagine their tones, because hearing the first sounds more tragic and soft, it seems more desperate and end of the line. (I love you so much) I’m willing to die for you sounds final and sad in a way that translates to I’m willing to give up what little time I have with you.(for me) The other sounds more violent and rash, it sounds insane and unheard of and sort of impossible to consider someone you love so dearly is willing to kill, even if it is “for you”. (I love you so much) I’m willing to kill for you could present itself more harshly than the other phrase and seems sort of possessive in a way. (to me)

In the end, this all just thoughts and opinions. Truly, how likely is it that these situations are to occur? Not all that often, but more likely then never.

The Files

The newsroom was a busted aquarium full of old coffee and flickering screens, and I was the last fish stupid enough to keep swimming.

It was past midnight. The janitor was pushing that mop down the hallway like it owed him money, leaving snail‑trails of gray water. Somewhere a copy of the Constitution was crying into its beer. The big bosses were gone, the interns had vanished back to their cheap apartments and cheaper weed, and it was just me and the federal document dump from hell.

Three million pages of Epstein and every bastard who orbited him. Three million pages of bureaucratic moaning, legalese, and the occasional scream that slipped through the redactions. And threaded through it all, like a bad joke written in gasoline: TRUMP.

I stared at the portal. That ugly government interface, gray as an overcast hangover, waving a warning banner:

UNVERIFIED ALLEGATIONS. MAY BE FALSE. MAY BE FAKE. MAY BE YOUR NEW RELIGION.

I typed anyway.

TRUMP + ASSAULT + MINOR.

Hit Enter. Let the machine vomit its truth.

The counter spun up—fifty‑seven hits, ninety‑two, two hundred and change—and leveled out somewhere north of three hundred. Three hundred official government artifacts tying the President of the United States to the kind of words you used to only see in crime paperbacks and police reports.

Beautiful. Terrible. Exactly what I’d signed up for.

First doc: an FBI 302. I could spot one from across the bar at closing time. All those little boxes at the top like a DMV form for the damned. Case number, date, field office. Then the narrative, written in that dead federal voice that could make a bank robbery sound like a zoning dispute.

On [REDACTED], “Jane Doe” was interviewed…

Here she was again. Thirteen. Manhattan. Epstein. Trump. A townhouse that smelled like money and menace. I’d seen this story stagger through civil suits in 2016, limping from affidavit to affidavit, then collapsing in withdrawal. Now it was pinned here like a butterfly, flattening even as it tried to flutter.

“Victim stated she had previously sworn an affidavit…”

“Victim acknowledged she later directed counsel to withdraw…”

“Victim expressed fear that political implications would overshadow her story…”

You could hear the agents backing away even as they wrote it, hands held up, neat little note‑takers at the intersection of Hell and Campaign Season.

The internet would chew this up and spit out its favorite flavors: TRUMP. RAPE. EPSTEIN. Thirteen. That’s all it needed. That’s all it ever wanted.

But I could see the rest. The hesitation. The bureaucratic stutter around a story that might be the truth or might be a fever dream or might be something worse: something real and unprovable.

My phone buzzed. A text from Erin over at the other outlet—the one that pays better and cares less.

still w/ the epstein sewer?

I wrote: it’s overflowing.

She: drinks?

I flipped the phone face‑down. Tonight I was married to the sewer.

Next document. A tip‑line log. Some digital lunatic squealing into the government void. An email address that looked like a bad joke and a worse security decision, claiming to know a girl, a party, New Jersey, the president, an act so vile it left teeth marks.

The agent’s note at the bottom was pure comedy:

Lead opened. WFO to contact complainant.

And then the abyss. No follow‑up. No closure. No neat TV‑season ending. Just another little coffin nailed shut with the words “no further info.”

This is what you don’t get in the movies. In the movies, the tips line up, the witnesses crack, and the bad man goes to jail or dies righteously in a hail of government‑issue bullets. In real life, the story drowns in voicemail.

I opened a fresh doc. It blinked at me, innocent and empty.

WORKING HEADLINE:

INSIDE THE EPSTEIN FILES: THE TRUMP ACCUSATIONS AND THE GAPING HOLE WHERE CERTAINTY SHOULD BE

Too long. Too honest. I hacked at it until it looked like something a respectable paper could print without spontaneously combusting.

The first thing you need to know about the Trump allegations in the Epstein files is that they’re not new…

I stopped. It felt like trying to explain a dirty joke to a jury.

“Still here?” a voice said.

It was Richard, the night copy guy, floating in the doorway with his sleeves rolled and his eyes half‑shot. A ghost of deadlines past.

“Apparently,” I said.

He looked at the screen. “Jesus. You bathing in that stuff now?”

“Cheaper than mezcal.”

“Say the magic word.”

“Unverified,” I said.

He smiled. “Again.”

“Unverified.”

“That’s the one. Tuck it in everywhere. Lidocaine for the lawyers.”

He wandered off, leaving the smell of red pen and printer toner in his wake.

I went back to the file dump and pulled up a Department statement—some poor bastard’s attempt to get ahead of the mob.

Some materials may include fabricated images and videos, as well as false or sensational allegations…

Translation: “Congress made us dump the trash, don’t blame us if some of it is radioactive.”

I wanted to print that line on a T‑shirt and wear it to every press conference for the rest of my life.

Back in my draft, I carved ribs into the beast:

– Jane Doe, the ghost of 2016.

– The FBI memo that embalms her.

– The New Jersey story with the teeth and the fist.

– The pile of drunk‑dial tips and weaponized rumors.

– DOJ waving a little flag that says “some of this is crap, we promise.”

– The dog that didn’t bark: no charges, no memos, no smoking gun.

Outside, the city’s lights smeared themselves against the windows like someone had thumbed the whole skyline. A siren wound up and unwound, bored and hungry.

I wrote:

The presence of these stories in federal files doesn’t make them true. It makes them official. It means somebody told them, somebody wrote them down, and now they live here forever, knocking around inside the machinery of the state. What the files don’t show is the hard part: proof. There are no visible prosecution memos recommending charges against Trump for sex crimes tied to Epstein, no indictments, no sign in what’s been released that the Justice Department thought it had a case it could win.

I stared at that last part. It felt like standing in front of a firing squad and asking for a second cigarette.

That absence matters just as much as the allegations.

There it was. The line. The tightrope. The goddamn razor blade.

I took another dive into the archive and surfaced with a gem: an internal evaluation memo, some desk jockey’s attempt to put the wild online rumors into a neat gray box.

Analyst reviewed open‑source claims… Many appear derivative of initial Jane Doe civil complaint… No independent corroboration found… Recommended no further action absent new evidence.

No further action. The music of the spheres in American justice. Not guilty, not innocent. Just… not tonight.

I could feel the story forming into something sharp and mean in my hands. Not the fantasy the partisans wanted, not the exoneration or the miracle indictment. Just a mirror held up to the system itself: the girls, the gossip, the way the whole apparatus took in screams and spat out PDFs.

By now my eyes felt like someone had sanded them. My spine had fused into the cheap newsroom chair. The clock said 12:37 a.m., which is the hour when you find out what kind of reporter you really are.

I kept going.

I laid out the New Jersey allegation like an autopsy: who said what, who they claimed was there, what they described. No adjectives. No purple prose. Just verbs that told the truth about where I stood: “claimed,” “alleged,” “said.”

You have a right to know that people told these stories to federal agents. You also have a right to know that, based on what’s visible now, those stories never turned into charges—and that the same Justice Department dumping these files is waving a neon sign that some of this stuff is false.

I could already hear the howling—every flavor of it. The true believers who would say I was carrying water for a monster. The loyalists who would call it a witch hunt. The bored, broken souls who’d shrug and ask if there was any video.

Richard reappeared with my printout marked up in bloody ink.

“You threaded the needle,” he said.

“Feels more like floss between shark teeth.”

He jabbed a red pen at one paragraph. “Here. You’re apologizing for saying what’s on the page. Cut the apology. Leave the facts.”

I did. The sentence stood up straighter without its cringing qualifiers. Naked, ugly, honest.

“Go home,” he said. “Let the internet scream at you in the morning.”

I saved the file—like a prayer, like a superstition, like flushing the toilet in a haunted house—and sent it to the system that would queue it up for public consumption. A twelve‑hundred‑word offering to the gods of outrage.

At the window, the city looked drunk and tired. Somewhere down there were men who’d flown on private jets with Epstein and smiled for cameras with Trump and called themselves businessmen or princes or philanthropists, like those words could sand the blood off their boots.

I knew what the story was now.

The Trump stuff in the Epstein dump wasn’t a secret dossier waiting to explode. It was a funhouse mirror. It showed you what people were willing to say, what the feds were willing to write down, and how far the machine would go before it shrugged and said, “No further action.”

That’s the part no one wants—no closure, no verdict, just a stack of paper and the knowledge that the truth is somewhere inside, half‑rotted and fused to the lies.

My phone buzzed again.

u alive? Erin wrote.

barely. filed.

She: good. someone has to be the adult in the room.

I laughed, a short, cracked sound. I didn’t feel like an adult. I felt like a court reporter at the trial of the century, except no one ever called a jury.

On my way out, I caught my reflection in the elevator doors: unshaven, raccoon‑eyed, ink‑stained. A man who’d spent the night swimming through filth and come out with nothing but words.

“Unverified,” I muttered.

Not the allegations. Not tonight.

The courage to put them on the page with all their missing pieces, and to say out loud: this is all we’ve got, and it might not be enough.

The elevator shuddered, coughed, and started down.ĺ

A little novel update

HI GUYS OMG AJBFFJKBFBKJWFBKJAFWJ

Just here to say that I think I’m cooking so hard that I’m 11-12 chapters in my book, and I think Act 1’s gonna wrap up soon (I might do the 3 act structure but ill see where this goes

I am thinking as a fresh start on this blog I should write my first series with Dean Winchester x reader (I am really obsessed with Jensen Ackles right now)

Here’s a little sneak peak

Something wasn’t adding up, that’s the first thing Dean thought. I mean what are the odds that someone 𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 was haunting people down. Not any people no, haunters just haunters.

That’s the fifth body they went to investigate the former ones being a dead end. They didn’t even know what happened or what caused it except that every target was gone.

So, what are we thinking?