[open] Can you hear what I hear?

[Pentecost]

Do you want to know why I use a knife?
Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the...
little emotions. In... You see, in their
last moments, people show you who they
really are. So, in a way, I know your friends
better than you ever did.

I watch her come, a warm reddish brown with eye-catching strokes of blues carefully placed. She vibrates a visible energy that glows with demand for attention. A luminescent shine that leaves my eyes motionless, paralyzed in the presence of her. But, is she safe? A few seconds pass—maybe five or nine—before I hear yes, she is safe, cooing in confirmation. That’s enough for me, as I twitch my ears to her voice; her singsong tune that lingers with the disappearing sun. I turn to face her—my hindquarters swinging ever so softly—only leaving the whispers of snow as it crushes beneath my weight. I get lost in her doe eyes, watching as they blink with emotion and… care? Is that what I see here? A child of the stars I hear IT whisper, a place to belong, Pentecost. She talks as if lost for words and I cannot help but wonder if I may have contributed to that, or if she is just naturally breath taken. It is because of us, dear Pentecost, us! A definitive answer. I bite my tongue, the conflict between head and heart taking hold here and now. My mind reminding me that I do tend to see the larger, more long term picture that perhaps felt pressuring to others. That I did cut corners and jump steps because I can be impulsive and unpredictable. I let out an uncomfortable gasp for air, as if caught off guard—or even offended—to be considered a child of the stars. Dear Pentecost, do you hear what I hear? “A child of the stars?” I look at her with mouth agape, a cult I had never heard of, yet I sit here thirsting for more answers, more information. “Leonora,” I whisper equally breath taken, “I am Pentecost,” another exhale before silence bestows us once more. I feel her sea of energy waft over me like a rolling tide of soothing saltwater, getting lost momentarily before coming to surface again. Tell her we are children of the stars, Pentecost. I hear IT demand, the lingering tension that cradles my thoughts with extra care and caution—as if I am walking a tight rope, and dare I say the wrong thing… Well, it could go very bad. Though IT’s words still light-hearted and dare I say, warming? Tell her, friend. I knew this could not be true, as I am the child of Carnage and Perse and I had never heard of the term prior. But, there is something about her. Something that makes me want to be like her. A tingling sensation that could be mine for the keep if I just said yes, Leonora, yes! I am a child of the stars! We are long lost siblings, but we have found each other now. But, isn’t that lying? But, we want her to like us. Yes, but won’t she anyways? No, Pentecost. No one ever likes you. “I am a child of the stars,” I respond with uncertainty, “at least, I must be.”

PENTECOST

WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO WERE COWARDS?

@[leonora]