note: be sure you always scroll within the blue box to read the entire scenario before you choose your path.

it's friday night.

you’re seated before your vanity, the string of lights encircling the mirror painting your face with soft glowing golds & greens, reflecting off the tall viridian walls around you, & casting the disheveled bed behind you in a forest of shadow. upon it lies a dejected sequin blazer, a leopard print bodysuit, & a violet silk negligee. you have already darkened your eyelashes with mascara, & now you contemplate the comforting disarray of the items within hands-reach: the lipstick tubes, vintage strings of beads, clippings of hair, the candle burning in the shot glass. you are uplifted by the possibility all around you, thick like honey in the air, pressing tenderly against your collarbone, the nape of your neck - stretching itself lazily out before you, like an ancient scroll covered with the curling ink of a love story that has survived the centuries...

this is the rituliaty of friday night: you before your altar, your fingertips whispering spells against your eyelids as you smudge an iridescent pigment, your mind wandering far-away aisles, picking up & then cupping fragments of possible futures like singular jewels, a smooth oval of citrine the flutterings of an innocent flirtation, a jagged slice of amethyst a risque dance with a stranger, and...

you feel the gravity of the moments that lie ahead. however, it's still a bit too early.

come back later.