For All The Dogs

Away From Home

"I Need To Know..."

*"Four hours of sleep. That’s all it took. No names, no history—just a presence that won’t let go. She exists somewhere between the stars and my subconscious, pulling me into a world where distance means nothing. I don’t know her, but I feel her. The weight of her emotions, the unspoken pain, the quiet unraveling of something she can’t say out loud. And somehow, without ever touching reality, I’m there.

I don’t have to see her to know she’s real. I don’t have to meet her to understand that I was sent to witness, to feel, to hold space. Maybe that’s what celestial power is—moving through the unseen, controlling the current of another’s cosmic ocean, letting my heart be where my body cannot.

In these dreams, I know her. I know the way she presses against me when she hugs me, how the weight of her sorrow turns into stardust bursting around us. I can see the details the waking world won’t give me—her smile, her height, the way she turns her head when she speaks. She is both a stranger and a prophecy, and every night I get closer to knowing why.

Angel number 1046 is a message of divine alignment in love. It signals that romantic energy is shifting, new connections are forming, and twin flames are drawing closer—even before they meet in the physical. It’s a reminder that love moves beyond time, beyond space, beyond logic. If you feel it, it’s real.

This song isn’t just a reflection. It’s a question, a calling, a dream that keeps happening long after I wake up.

Original Track: The Real Her - Drake 
11/15/2011 

Poem Remix..
Midway..Beat Reverse.. 
Last Part is Cosmically Manipulated.. 

So tell me—do you see her too?"*

🔺 1046 Frequencies
🔺 This is beyond music. This is a transmission.
🔺 She’s out there. Somewhere.

TAKE CARE, 2046 EP

I NEED TO KNOW

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

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.

WHISPA DEAL

ARIES

CELESTIAL SKRILLA

Built on the foundation of Popcaan ft. Drake – All I Need, this piece carries that same longing — but through the heartbeat of a poet drifting since October 24th. After being isolated and finding a fragile peace back home in Grenada, my best friends pulled up for a week and a half just to keep me grounded… to remind me I’m still here even when my spirit feels elsewhere.

Some nights I slip into the astral — meeting my older brother Celestial Drizzy in that endless space where emotions speak louder than language. We talk. We vent. We try to understand why the universe keeps reshaping itself around our pain.

And then she appears.

The woman I never manifest, never call, never even think of — she simply arrives. Only when she sleeps. Only when her subconscious reaches for me. She never looks at the poet in the waking world… but in the dream realm she calls me closer, whispering through vibrations I feel before I hear.

Every time she appears, something cosmic shifts.
Stars move.
Destiny bends.

And yet she never gives the honesty she sends in pieces — fragments that reach Othello Senior long before they reach me.

Othello Senior stands waiting too — faceless, ancient, holding his candle — waiting for the truth she won’t speak, and waiting for his son to return. Waiting for Amsterdam. Waiting for the moment I step back into the studio to record and release the upcoming poem album within the 4646OVO realm.

I’ve birthed four stars listening to her frequency alone.
All I want is clarity.
All I need… is for her celestial body to finally speak what she feels.

This poem is a confession.
A cosmic tether.
A signal flare from the universe of 1046.

#1046 #Poetry #IslandPoet #Popcaan #Drake 

I NEED...

1046 enters the deepest chambers of his astral core with CELESTIALSHIP, a cosmic prelude shaped by the emotional architecture of PARTYNEXTDOOR’s PARTYMOBILE—but translated into pure celestial frequency.

Crafted in isolation, this EP captures the poet during a transformative phase where darkness became instruction, silence became fuel, and the universe became collaborator. Guided by the higher Toronto 2046 tap—his uncle’s elevated frequency—1046 records foundational poetry meant for the cosmos, not just the studio walls.

CELESTIALSHIP unfolds through three poem-track titles that form the emotional spine of the journey:

“Split Decision” — the soul fracture

“Loyal” — the eternal vow

“The News” — the cosmic notice

These three titles mark the poet’s internal shift as he prepares for his full poem album dropping this month. They map the moment his spirit split open, the vow he made to the void, and the message the universe sent back.

CELESTIALSHIP is the ignition spark—
the first flare of a new era—
as 1046, The Poet, elevates into his next celestial chapter.

Board the ship.
Feel the shift.
Enter the cosmos of the poet.

#PartyMobile #Toronto #2046 #Pink #Silk #Othello

COSMIC NOTICE

SOUL FRACTURE

ETERNAL VOW

FIXTAPE

ALL I NEED (feat. Drake)

I am not a Rapper.. I am a Poet. 
1046 is a numerical angel..

It’s Just A Poem 📝…  

All Poems are tied to dreams and feelings.. 
Poetic Art is created by The Poet

Enjoy 🕙: 🕓🕡