Knowing smile
Your shy denial ,,
It’s sinking write
A good word left

It’s narrow gate
We’re through ,,
I fell for you

Well I’ll be
Your shadow too
If you follow me
I fell for you

Sun went down
Horizons sea ,
Write where
The mirror bleeds
Stained what craved ,

Peace you own
Stand by you alone ,,

Haze past the mirror last ,,
Act soul slow
Shadows know the cast ,,,

Love to light
The darkness ,,
A shadow of me
Mirror your words
Let you see ,,

Your shadow love
To speak my tongue ,,
Save themselves
From sorrow ,,
It’s shadows follow

Holy Lot
Holy Bible
Keeping soul
Far out trouble ,,

Well I’ll be ,
Your shadow too
Love if you follow me ,,
I fell for you.

😊ar nee

"This isn't just some other battle we can afford to lose, this is a war for our very existence." - Enthéos

At 2:07 a.m., I called the crisis line and said, “No one is hurt. I’m just twelve and tired of being the grown-up.”

I was sitting on the kitchen floor because the tile felt less cold than the concrete in the bedroom. My sister, Maya, slept on my coat, mouth open, one hand gripping the ear of her stuffed fox. The air mattress had given up last week and never forgave us. When the fridge rattled, Maya mumbled and pulled her knees up like she knew the noise was our lullaby.

The woman on the phone spoke softly, like she didn’t want to wake my building. “I’m glad you called, Jayden,” she said, because I told her my name. People forget your name when they’re busy, so it felt like a blanket when she remembered. “Is there danger in the home?”

“No,” I said. “Mom’s at work. She does the night shift unloading trucks, then sometimes deliveries. She’ll be back at six. It’s just… I’m tired. And Maya rolls onto the concrete when she sleeps.”

“What would make tonight easier?” she asked.

“A place for her to not fall off,” I said, and I realized I was crying, and it wasn’t loud, it was just like my face decided to tell the truth.

They came fast for a night without sirens. A knock like a question. A man and a woman in dark jackets with a small emblem that said Community Response. The man—his name was Luis—took his shoes off at the door and crouched so we were eye level. The woman, Bri, whispered hello to the stuffed fox and Maya smiled in her sleep like she heard it.

“Can we look around?” Luis asked. They moved slow, like the room was fragile. It was. We had a table with one leg shorter than the rest, two plates, a pot that used to be someone else’s. On the wall, my drawings—houses with big square windows colored yellow. I taped them up straight even though the paint bubbled.

“You draw?” Luis asked.

“Sometimes,” I said. “When Maya naps.”

“What’s your favorite thing to draw?”

“Lights in windows,” I told him, and felt dumb for how serious it sounded. But he didn’t laugh. He nodded like I had told him something important about the world.

Bri set down a folded blanket, two pillows wrapped in plastic, and a little nightlight shaped like a moon. “Tonight, we can fix the cold,” she said. “Tomorrow, we’ll fix the falling off.”

They didn’t ask for paperwork. They asked what kind of stories Maya liked. They filled two cups with water and let me keep the cups. Before they left, Luis put a sticky note on the fridge. You are a kid. Resting is brave. We’ll be back.

I kept that note like it was a law.

In the morning, Mom tiptoed in smelling like warehouse dust and peppermint gum. She kissed Maya’s hair without waking her. “Who brought the moon?” she whispered.

“People who knew our address,” I said, and her eyes did that glassy thing like rain was trying to come in and she was holding the window shut.

The next evening, the hallway felt different, like a secret was walking toward us. Luis came back with two firefighters in t-shirts, carrying pieces of a bunk bed that looked like a giant puzzle. Bri had a flat box that turned into a desk, and a chair with a wobbly arm that she tightened with a coin. A lady from the library—her name was Ms. Patel—brought a little gray box. “A hotspot,” she said. “Free, like books. It’ll help with homework.”

Our neighbor, Mrs. Green, shuffled over with a bag of cloth. “Remainders from my sewing,” she said, and somehow the cloth became a curtain that turned the corner by the window into a room of its own.

They moved like a team that had done this before: measuring, laughing quietly, vacuuming the dust bunnies that had learned our names. Luis lifted the frame without scraping the wall, like he was carrying something alive. When they slid the mattresses in, I touched the fabric to make sure it was real. It was springy and clean and smelled like a big store where everything is folded the same.

“Top or bottom?” Bri asked Maya.

“Top,” Maya said, and then looked at me, waiting for permission like I was older than I wanted to be. “You can have it,” I told her. “I’ll be the dragon under your castle.”

We plugged in the moon light, and Ms. Patel strung tiny star lights across the curtain. When the room lit up, Maya did that tiny gasp kids do when the world gives them a surprise without saying please. She climbed up, slid down, climbed up again, and then lay still, staring at the stars like maybe they knew her.

Luis tapped the sticky note still on our fridge and added another under it: Your drawings belong on the wall and in the world. Don’t forget.

The firefighters left a small toolbox. “In case a screw gets loose,” one said. “Happens to all of us.”

After they were gone, the apartment felt taller. Mom came in from her second delivery run and put a hand over her mouth. She sat on the lower bunk and didn’t speak for a long time, which is how I knew she was using all her words on not crying.

I climbed to the top bunk beside Maya and lay on my back. The ceiling didn’t look like a ceiling. It looked like the bottom of a boat. I felt the bed hold me the way the floor never could. I didn’t know I was holding my breath until my body remembered how to put it down.

Sometimes when you finally lie down, your bones talk about how long they’ve stood. Mine were loud. I covered my face with my forearm so nobody would have to manage me being a kid. But Luis had written it already: resting is brave. So I let myself.

Before dawn, Mom sent a photo to a number Bri had left on the counter: two kids asleep in a room with stars. At 6:28 a.m., a text came back: Thank you for letting us help. We’ll check in next week. No rush on returning the hotspot.

I took my pencil and drew another house. Same big windows, same yellow light. But this time I added people behind the glass—little stick-me on the top bunk, Maya with her fox, Mom sitting at the bottom edge with her shoes off, a moon on the wall that worked even when the sun did not.

When I taped it up, it didn’t curl.

Here’s what I learned at 2:07 a.m. and again at 6:28: sometimes safety isn’t a siren. Sometimes it’s a bed that doesn’t leak, a curtain that pretends a corner is a door, a librarian who believes Wi-Fi is a right now, and a note on a fridge telling a kid that being a kid is allowed.

If you’re reading this, maybe you have something gathering dust—a spare pillow, a lamp, a number for the library. Maybe you have a minute to ask a quiet question: “What would make tonight easier?” It doesn’t take a millionaire to change a childhood. It takes someone who remembers a name and shows up with light.

OBAMA administration purchased AB*RTED BABIES and their body parts.

This just goes to show you how demonic the Obama administration really was and the type of people we're really dealing with.

The article states that the Obama administration purchased babies' heads for $515 dollars, among many others, for fetal tissue research.

You must understand that in order to conduct the test they were doing, the "parts" that they purchase can't be old, so the DNA and tissue can't be dead. It had to be fresh.

So where were they getting these baby parts from? Were these planned abortions? It's time to understand the type of evil we are truly dealing with, ladies and gentlemen.

These people are sick...

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PAIN & ACCOUNATBILITY is approaching.

We are about to witness more dominoes fall.

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