The way spring light shapes things, gets into the folds in heavy fabric, makes sculptures around the body, constantly renewing with every movement
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Ivan: Lady Galina? This is Ivan. I'm worried for you, I hear you haven't been eating the food that's been brought up to you...
Galina: *through the door* That's because I hate soup! And the one they brought yesterday smelled terrible! I wish Janviya was there, she would have made me something decent.
Ivan: Oh I'm so sorry about that... Yes, what a shame your Serf-in-waiting was taken along on the expedition. So thoughtless of them... And now you must feel so alone and uncared-for...
Galina: *sniffles* Well...yes, it was thoughtless of... them. At least you're here to keep me company Ivan.
Ivan: I can't in good conscience let you stay in your room, when you've been cooped up for so long. You should see the little frost on the paths, it glitters beautifully in the moonlight... I'd love to accompany you on a walk my lady.
Galina: *hesitant* Well... I suppose...
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the synths on this song hit a very particular pocket of 80s pop that few inspired songs nowadays manage to find & knowing this is her 1st self-produced album? helllll fuckin yeah
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Re-introducing Galina
IG: Bllloooom
📷 Wenshuai Huang
Represented by Bacca Models
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I said Galina wake UUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPP
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It’s like someone in the writer’s room really read the books or something 😊
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Bone Spirit: WH̀͗͂̽ͮO̻̲͖̰͓̪ ̣̗̭̳̦̘̊ͥ͛ͫ̈́̇SUM̺͙͔̝̪͈M̲̱Ō͈̘̦̘͕̦͇ͩͫ͆̉͒ͬN̝̈S ̩͍̬̖̰̫̬M̔ͫ͌ͤͪE?͓̙̣͍͇̩̰̀̇̍ͣ̓̓͗
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Mirror, Mirror
Be Galina ->
You roll out of bed, head aching. Father doesn't allow the use of soporifics, even as a sleep aid, so you're almost always plagued with horrific dreams. There's a small mercy tonight in not being able to remember them, but the tradeoff is that you're going to have a splitting headache for the rest of the evening, and possibly into tomorrow.
With a yawn, you wander over to the mirror that hangs on the far wall. Your hair is a mess, so you take a few moments to smooth it down. It's not a very good job, but it's not like anyone besides Father will see you, so it doesn't exactly matter.
You turn your head, examining a scar near your ears. Father said a wild animal attacked you when you were a grub, and though you have no reason to doubt him, you wonder why there's an identical scar on the other side of your face.
This talk of scars makes you look down at your hands. The webbing that refuses to stay dead is growing back again and you grimace. If it gets much longer, Father is going to have to burn it off again.
You turn in front of the mirror, examining your back. On your shoulder blades are two identical scars, thin lines that are four inches long, going up and down. Another attack from when you were a grub; but why are they so clean, so precise?
You sigh and decide to get dressed. Father is going to want to see you soon, and then you have a whole list of chores, including cleaning the cathedral bells.
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