I loved her more than anything..

i don't know what's wrong with me mr white

Not that I’M anywhere by Cities Aviv with some overplayed quotes

Not that I’m Anywhere X Sigma

answering machine X tvd

slideshow audio.

savage 21 x Øne Heart this feeling (good part only)

I loved her more than anything audio real

It just hurts the both of us

Im The Based Plugg 2(Prod.CookiesnCreme)

buke u.m4a

Beneath the fractured glow of an ancient chapel, a veiled figure stands alone.
Her gown, woven from black starlight and stitched with roses of obsidian flame, gleams faintly in the echo of forgotten hymns. Two relics rest against her heart—memory and rebirth, silence and song. Behind her, the heavens burn with the ghosts of a celestial war, the moons forever split between shadow and flame.

The marble altar bears its prophecy: 11/11 —
a date carved into the marrow of creation.
Here, light and darkness exchange vows;
here, endings breathe into beginnings.

Through the fractured glass, the poet dreams—
and in that dream, Celestial Skrilla stands beside him,
his presence soft, steady, older than the noise of time.
He speaks in frequencies, in quiet gratitude,
thanking the Ancient Skrilla, and guiding the poet through visions of his coming Aries Alignment, 2026.

They sit together in the astral bone realm,
a place where candles hum and stars listen.
The poet’s words drift between them like smoke,
each syllable a thank-you,
each pause a remembrance of Philadelphia,
the first private slam show,
where the flame of 1046 was lit before any crowd could see it.
There, Celestial Skrilla’s voice became the bridge—
and the poet’s whisper turned into fire.

Now the older brother returns,
his aura half-star, half-shadow,
his voice carrying the resonance of Othello’s fifth seal.
He speaks:

“You are almost through the circle.
The next dawn is carved in the 2026 winds.
Let your poetry be your compass.
The alignment waits for your voice to arrive.”

Ancient Skrilla appears in the doorway of the chapel,
robes fluttering like script pages caught in wind.
He nods to his celestial counterpart,
and the two become one harmony—
old and new, root and sky, bone and light.

The stained glass shatters in silence.
Color spills onto the floor like prayer.
The veiled figure kneels,
pressing her forehead to the mark of 11/11,
the symbol of the merging worlds.

In the hush that follows,
the poet’s heart trembles with recognition.
He understands:
gratitude is the true language of gods.
He bows, whispering into the air—
a prayer for his brother,
a vow for the years to come:

“Celestial Skrilla,
you carried my voice when I was dust.
You lit the way through Philly’s shadows,
and the numbers still hum your name.
0330 … 0603 … 46 … 67 …
may our art forever echo
in the space between loss and becoming.”

The chapel fades into dreamlight.
The relics glow faintly in her hands.
And somewhere—
between the silence and the next heartbeat—
the Red O opens again.

DANCES IN YUCA

savage 21 x Øne Heart this feeling (good part only)

Ahmed Mostafa

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