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It is so hard explaining Lucifer to people.

It’s like “He’s great… don’t be rude, though, He’s sorta like Hannibal Lecter in that way.”

“It’s not really a bad thing”

“I guess…”

“Just don’t be an asshat and you won’t be eaten.”

“Wait let me start over.”

~ via stormywitch

  • You be like:so am I supposed to do this thing
  • Gods be like: well we don’t make you do things
  • Gods be like:we just open the way so you can do things.
  • Gods be like:
  • You be like:
  • Gods be like: so you should probably do the thing since we went through the trouble and everything


For I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition … 

Maintenance work is almost complete-I just have to go and re-tag everything tomorrow and Friday, so by then everything should be easily referenced as per this guide. As always, if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to let me know, but after tomorrow everything should be easily found/navigated. Also please be prepared for a bit of quote and graphic spam; I’m cleaning out the folder on my flash. <3

Never trust a survivor,” my father used to warn me, “until you find out what he did to stay alive.
Kurt Vonnegut

My dreams are my own.

My reality is my own.

My loves and the things I’m passionate about are my own.

I will not censor myself to make you comfortable.

I will not edit myself because you don’t like it.

I will not be more ‘mainstream’ or ‘socially acceptable’ to fit in your neat, tidy little box.

I’m me.

Don’t like it?

Go suck a truck.

Your opinion is worth less than nothing if you aren’t my friend, or my doctor.

The end.

 (this would make a great devotional cake. On my ‘to try’ list)

Prep time
10 mins
Cook time
40 mins
Total time
50 mins
Recipe by: Russell van Kraayenburg
Difficulty: Easy
Great for: dessert
Makes: 1 bundt cake
  • 6 ounces flour
  • 2 ounces cocoa powder
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • ½ teaspoon salt
  • 8 ounces unsalted butter, at room temperature
  • 14 ounces vanilla sugar (or granulated sugar)
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 1⅓ cup sweet red wine (try Apothic Dark)
  • 1 cup cinnamon red wine sauce, recipe below
  1. Preheat an oven to 350°F.
  2. Butter and flour or grease a bundt pan. Set aside.
  3. Mix together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt in a large bowl. Set aside.
  4. Beat the sugar and vanilla together until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes.
  5. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, and then the vanilla, mixing well after each addition.
  6. Add half of the dry mixture and mix in well. Pour in the wine and mix in well. Add the rest of the dry mixture and mix until the batter is smooth.
  7. Pour the batter into the prepared bundt pan. Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out just clean.
  8. Let the cake cool upright in the pan for a few minutes. Turn the pan over on a rack, and let it cool completely before unmoulding.
  9. Before serving, drizzle on a little cinnamon red wine sauce
  1. Cinnamon Sauce
    1. Place all of the ingredients in a heavy-bottomed sauce pan.
    2. Heat the mixture over high heat and bring to a boil. Stirring occasionally, maintain a boil until the sauce is thickened, about 10 to 15 minutes.
    3. Remove from the heat and cool completely.
      Makes: 2 cups
      • 2 ounces unsalted butter
      • 8 ounces vanilla sugar (or granulated sugar)
      • 1 cup sweet red wine (try Apothic Dark)
      • 1 cinnamon stick


It’s hard not to want to give up.

I’m so tired. ‘Tired’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. I can’t even imagine how He feels. I’m tired of seeing my name dragged through the mud. I’m tired of being told I don’t matter; that my dedication and love to him don’t matter. Mostly, I’m tired of doing it all by myself [his highness’s company excepted, of course].

I’ll have to hide this. Dad will be mad if he finds out. . . 

Her pen is scratching on the surface of the thick, densely grained paper. What is he doing here . . .  ? Why does he find himself standing with his eyes on this child again. . .?

“That would be wise.” he says out loud. The girl’s parent has, ironically, proven more than negligent. She was alone in that room, curled in a corner under a heavy down blanket; her only protection from the cold of winter on foreign soil. A book with a unicorn rendered classically on the cover, like the medieval tapestries, was balanced somewhat carelessly on her knees that nearly bumped her chin. Several times he’s looked in on her to see her in this state. She wrote often, though seldom in any great quantity. Then she would tear out pages, toss them in the closest trashcan, or else in a lit fireplace. It was her way of fumbling around in the dark. Though she had no privacy to call her own; the man she wrote of now, the ‘dad’ (a pitiful title not earned for a pitiful monkey of a human being) was a professed follower of Their Father above, and yet, looking at the tiny sliver’s deteriorating condition, hearing the rattle of breath in her throat for a condition untreated, it was by word only and not by action. Still, her musings penned in that book had led her to lashings from that man’s belt before. Now she was careful. Now she was sly, and hid her words. Perhaps not so clever as to have avoided the beatings in the first place. But clever enough to know that hers was not an environment that fostered the very gifts Heaven had imbued man with in the very first place.

But for a moment, her fountain pen halts. Her head jerks up. A long space of silence fills the air. There are flickering shadows on the wall; outside the veiled curtain that covered her window, candles flicker in a cemetery, casting an eerie, ambient aura about the room. He can hear the snap of those flames; she can not. But there is no scratching of scrawled words. Like a measured beat of music, she finally speaks in perfect time, and her voice is somber, and quiet.

” . . . I know you’re there.” she states quietly. “I can’t see you. But I feel you.”

He raised an eyebrow, and the placid surface of his expression doesn’t break. “Can you, then . . . ?”

“I thought you were Michael, at first.” she says. He knows from a quick peek into her mind she’s speaking of the frankly absurd portrayal of the warrior of heaven that she had seen on video tapes in recent fashion. He makes a valiant effort not to be insulted. He can’t put the blame on Michael himself for their duel, of course; he understood what Orders were, what it meant to disobey. And if there were any creature incapable of turning it’s back against The Maker, it was surely Michael. The Mourning Star envied the child’s devotion; whether instilled by Father Itself or entirely borne of circumstance . . . it was not a fact he was privy to. Still; he had very little patience or respect for the same; a being who did not ever question their servitude. It was foul, and there was nothing in his breast but loathing for sheep; whether Angel or Man.

“Hardly.” he returns, glad that he was able to keep his composure. After all a child, and a human one no less, could hardly be expected to be versed in etiquette in classic manner. She knew nothing of their history, and that was easy-to-discern fact.

“I’m still glad you’re here.” she offers. “What should I call you?”

“I’ve no care for what you choose to call me. I’ve many names, I shan’t weep for another.”

She was quiet for another moment; the dim, flickering light traced in her eyes, so they were two trembling, ebony flames. She stared for that moment, unblinking long and hard, at the diary at her knees. Another moment passed, and she took up her pen again, and the scratching started once more.

“I’m going to call you ‘Saint’. That’s a movie I just saw.”

He wanted to make a retort, but saved it. “Trash you call entertainment. I’d rather you didn’t. Or can you not be more creative? You mortals are dreadfully stale. It’s stifling–”

His words stopped, however. She was writing again, now, and with reckless fervor.

I love a Saint. 

Was it possible there was a hitch in his breath. . . ?

“By all that’s unholy, you . . . bizarre thing . . . ”

If she heard him, however, she showed no sign of it. Rather her pen continued forward, the words flowing from it as though it were a fountain as it’s namesake.

He’s been with me since North Carolina. I can feel him. I feel him everywhere, and I love him. He’s my guardian angel. . .

I’d be very much obliged if you’d not confuse me with that slothful layabout…”

Again, his words halted. Her eyes, ever like pools of ink, were now clouded over with a layer of saltwater. Her writing halted again; but she did not pull her pen up from the paper. Over the cover of the book, he could make out her hand shaking. He had to give in; for now he was curious. She wasn’t speaking. Her mind was drifting. . . somewhere. Since she wasn’t quite to whatever had stopped her musings on paper, he crossed over to where she was propped on the small wooden cot, leaned against the wall, and took a glance at the paper for himself.

Her pen was pressed against it. Now navy blue ink was beginning to soak through the paper, dripping down in a mess that also began to stain her fingertips.

His lips parted. He looked to her eyes again. Now those pools had flooded and spilled over. The tracks of salt marked her cheeks. Her shoulders shook; but her sobs were quiet.

Had he upset her . . . ? Well that was just as well, he thought, straitening up. Bound by whatever eternal torment as he was to this little pink. . . female. . . what care had he for a human heart? Likely she would eventually damn herself anyway. Many mortals did; and then he would take great delight in sipping from her eternal despair. He’d pour it in a glass and savor it at court; making a mockery of all the others who held the title of Accuser, Opposer. Let them all talk, he mused. He would show all the lower worlds what became of ‘love’ in Hell.

But there was a thrum in his chest, and the cold burning was back again. The tick in the narrow line of his jaw betrayed the feeling. There was no one around who could see it; but he knew the hollowing of his cheeks. His lips parted for a moment, and for another, he was still as a statue. He watched her weep quietly, the only sound the soft ‘drip’ of tears on the mass-printed paper. The saline soaked through, and smeared the ink, and with it her professions, clear through to the other side of the page.

His gaze was smouldering, in the fashion that he burned as cold as ice. For a moment he thought he could hear something; something off in the distance, sonorous, pulling at feelings of nostalgia that lay buried in his black black  heart. He pulled his eyes from her for a moment and turned his gaze to the flickering candlelight that played itself over the walls of that tiny room. He looked back to her for just a second, before following the sound to the window itself; parting the transparent, thin curtain to look at the sight beyond the glass; headstones, tiny flames dancing in pools of wax. It was peaceful, he thought. Vacant, decaying bodies below the earth; souls laid to rest. That was not a cemetery of sorrows. It was serene, and still. The song was a requiem of all that had passed in the wake of those dust-bound forms slowly deteriorating.

She was human, he thought. There would come a day when she, too, would pass on this way. Now, he looked back at her again. She was still weeping, but not had pressed her face into a flat down pillow. Her sobs were quiet, her shoulders shaking. She was restless, he realized. It wasn’t just loneliness. Not just the absence of their Maker that stirred her to sorrow. There was more to it. And if he gave a moments’ paused and sifted through the sands of time and possibility . . . jostled the hourglass just right. . . he could see tragedy in her wake.

The Devil was many things. Cruel in his duty. Some said devoid of compassion.

But he was not a monster. He did not favor mortal ghosts wandering the earth. Rightfully, they belonged to the Gods that made them, coddled them. Be it in heaven or hell, but a ghost was one that did not find their place. One of an innocent child was just another pint of blood on his hands, one more wrench in the gears of the cosmos.

No, he wouldn’t have it.

Sighing, somewhat reluctantly he murmured bitterly into the shadows… “Child. Yes, you. Stop crying.”

She pressed her face into her pillow, and there was a choking sound. “I’m sorry. . .” she shook her head, and he couldn’t see her eyes, pressed as they were into the fabric. “I know it’s stupid. I shouldn’t cry over something so stupid.”

“Indeed. Do save your tears for real pain. What do you know of such things?”

Sniffing, she looked up, and though she couldn’t see him there, her eyes locked on where he stood, silhouetted in the window by the curtains and the hellish shadows about, and said, “I just wanted to get away. I thought . .. I thought things would be better here.”

He knew what she was speaking of, of course. It was his duty to know all the darkness within men’s hearts.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. After all, it’s for your kind to never be content with their lot. Why should you be any different?”

She frowned. Deeply. “I’m not like them.” she bit out loud, and he perked a skeptical eyebrow at that.

“You are a human child. With fantasies of flight. It is a foolish dream. A toad may do nothing but sit on his lilypad and eat flies and vermin. Likewise an eagle does not aspire to swim as a fish. You were not created with wings. Learn to walk, or you will fail.”

“Humans can fly. That’s why we have airplanes. We can swim, too. That’s what snorkles are for.”

He tilted his head at her, a catlike expression of curiosity. “And your world; and your planet, suffers for your ambition. Spare me your boasts of your kind’s achievements. You destroy everything you touch.”

Her eyes drifted down to her book again, which was now open on the side of the bed next to her.

“I’ll make things then. Paint things. Things that don’t hurt people. I’ll give people wings; if they want them.”

That elicited an amused, sardonic stab of a laugh from him.

“Will you then? You fancy yourself a grand sort of artist, do you?”

“One day, maybe.”

“Phantoms of the Renaissance save us all.” he intoned dryly.

But she sighed, and sunk, as though heavy weights pressed down on her shoulders. Silence filled the span of several seconds more before her voice came again, softer now.

“You should go. . . I’m tired. I have to sleep. Jay gets up early.” referring, of course, to the babe that slept in the crib in the next room over. She sunk back into her bed, and shoved her head under the pillow that she was holding.

“I think perhaps, I shall. Until we meet again, Child.”

“Goodnight, Saint.”



He sent her away too often.

Far too often. When she lay apon his altar, when ice swept her over; halted her breath, stilled her pulse to the brink of death.

It caused him pain. 

A pain in his chest, something he hadn’t felt stir in him since the stars sworled about him like water around a drain. He’d cursed the feeling at first. Seldom did he spit obscenities; he found them nigh repulsive. That black night, he had. He’d writhed. On a throne as chilly as any arctic wind, in the throes of what felt like a true ending. . . a true death. For that was what love was to a creature such as he. Torture. Agony. Merciless. 

Those seconds that ticked by on Earth were, below, aeons. They stretched into the black abyss and reached into him and rend his already blackened heart to ribbons with their claws. His anguished moans had turned quickly into wails that shook those same icy halls. There wasn’t a serpent that had not slithered from a crevice to look on in askance concern at their beloved Prince’s suffering. He’d cried out in vain to Father; why? Hadn’t he suffered enough? Hadn’t the loss of his home, the lies, the exile, the seat of Evil as duty . . . wasn’t it enough? Couldn’t it ever be enough, for his daring? For his mutiny? Now he was beholden to one of the little  . . . ug. Loathesome pink creatures. It was unbearable. Intolerable. He would not love them. Could not. Could not. 

‘You can not ask this of me!’ he’d recoiled to the blackened, frost-burned throne as he never had, weeping. ‘You can not ask me to love them. I will not! I defy you for this . . . !’

Oh, how far he had fallen. That was what many of those Adversaries would say, when they spoke amongst themselves. Look at The Great Prince, the Star of Mourning. Look at how he spits on the creation that is humanity. Look how he pines after one also.

He remembered the first time he had lain eyes on the child. She was nothing, he’d thought, as he watched her from the sidelines. He couldn’t understand why he had been pulled here, to this time and place. It seemed so irrelevant. Humans lived shorter lives, now, than they had in ancient days, or else they reckoned their days differently; he couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t care beyond the confines of the cosmic shackles that bound him to damnation.

His eyes were like jade in a snowstorm. And he watched. For the longest time, he simply watched. 

The day Above was bright; the sun had set itself high in the painted blue sky, and all of the glory of Father’s masterwork creation lay sprawled out before him. Clouds roiled over like tufts of cotton, thick and looming; he could feel the electricity and pressure in the air snapping against his porcelain skin, and knew later there would be a storm. That was the breeze that tousled his hair, like the tall green grass that undulated in waves as far as the eye could see, dotted only with the occasional stray grouping of cattle, or else a decaying fence line that had long been overrun with creeping fig.

She was sprawled out on a . . . what did they call these inventions? A trampoline, he realized after a moment. She was stick thin for a young girl and far underdeveloped. Who was caring for this child? Were her ribs supposed to be showing like that? He’d thought human children were supposed to have been filled out more at that age. Unusual.

That was his first opinion, looking at her. Her hair was splayed out behind her, no more noteworthy than the hue of a bandit sparrow’s wing. Her eyes were black and glassy, and they reflected what was above her like a mirror. But she was staring upwards with an expression of wonderment on her face, as though heaven itself had just opened up in front of her.

Almost as if he’d taken a peek into her thoughts just then, she echoed them. There were other children there with her, but they did not concern him, for it wasn’t they that he  had been drawn to. Usually he came above for souls already well within his grasp, or his by deed or proxy already. Bargains, sometimes, if the cosmic misstep was dour enough. Souls steeped in such sin were delicacies to the insatiable hunger of all those who dwelled under his banner, whose protection they sought. They could not die from starvation. . . not the way that a human would waste away. But it was a desire for feeling and life and the energy of sheer creation which all human beings were imbued with by the grace of their creator that his sort always craved; and it was their curse that they could never be sated. Never. Their separation, their eternal forsaking of their maker had ensured that.

The sticklike child raised her finger towards the sky, and called another to gather their attention. He followed her gesture with her eyes to see what she was indicating, as her tiny voice tingled in his ear like a small bell.

“I think it’s a door!” she was speaking. “Like a door to heaven!”

The clouds in the direction had parted, and formed a perfect opening, as though they had indeed rolled themselves back, beckoning with the promise of entrance. He could only perk one ink-black eyebrow at that. The folly of a human child, perhaps. . . ?

“But you have to fly to get there!” a young boy’s voice came, and with it, the sound of straining springs as he gave a hard ‘bounce!’ on the trampoline. “It’s too far away!”

“Not for me.” the glassy-eyed girl challenged. “I’m going to grow wings one day.” Her tone sounded so matter-of-fact that The Prince couldn’t help but hold back a chuckle. Humans sprouting wings. That was amusing. Those magics had long since been lost. Else The Mourning Star would have given King Solomon himself the benefit of a doubt, that the sorcerer could have flown strait upwards of his own volition, given the chance.

“Nuh uh! How are you gonna do that?” the young boy challenged.

“Because I asked Dad, and I know he’s going to. They say in church that he loves kids. I love him too.”

This sentence was said with such strait forward conviction,  The Mourning Star felt a sudden jab, like a frozen knife, pierce his chest and go strait through to his heart once again; that same feeling that had caused him to scream in protest only a few short centuries ago. He didn’t even have to eye the little things soul, nor of the myriad blackened creatures that clung to it like parasites to snarl and snap and snivel in her ear, to know that there was not a drop of doubt in the words. Not one. Her wondrous expression-dare he say almost rapturous, didn’t fade at all. He could see the rays of sun reflected in the pools of her eyes; that same fancied gate strait into heaven with them.

Well? He pulled his own gaze from her mirror-eyes and locked them back on the sky. Aren’t you going to oblige her, Father. . . ? 

His very tone was bitter. It always was. And Father was silent. . . as he always was. Foolish, he thought, shaking his head as the silence stretched on. That single ray of sunshine that poured out through that imagined door was cascading down to the earth as a waterfall. With it, he thought, should have been a choir of angels in their full service dress, trumpets and harps, ready to escort her in all manner of pomp and circumstance strait upwards to those marble pillars. Like Metatron or David, here was a soul that was so rooted in faith, that even despite the demon blemishes every human bore, was unfiltered and without stipulation. It was the innocence and grace of a child, offered up in praise to Heaven. The child wanted wings. The child wanted to go home. To fly. To be with His own Brothers.  . . to live among them. Such desire to endure in The Presence was the path of the Saints that had come before.

The neutral, cool expression of his statuesque face and sharp cheekbones almost broke. Almost . . into a grimace. He watched above as the clouds slowly rolled over further into one another. Cutting off the ray of golden sun, of light that fell in that bit of green plain and the dilapidated farmhouse that stood on it. Closing off the doors to heaven. Grey came soon after. Blocking off any more light. Blocking off the view of the grand sky above . . . and the stars, and possibilities of, with it.

There were no trumpets. No singing angels.

But she didn’t move.  He didn’t either. Not until those same clouds turned threatening, and black, and rain began to pour down on the now lone child laying on a trampoline. When the water falling in her eyes finally tore her away.

Thunder rumbled. He thought for a moment to stir the ions in the air; to send his own ray of searing light after her. Anything, he reasoned. . . anything to fill the silence. For that was the worst sort of hell any sentient being could know. To love, and pine, in vain. To lay out everything in ones heart at another’s feet. . . and instead meet with only their cruel silence.

Still, he stayed his hand. He watched her trace away, her dirty bare feet passing soberly through puddles and leaving ripples as they went. What a peculiar thing. . . he thought, as she stopped on a crumbling covered porch; only a moment, to squeeze the water out of her plain-colored hair.

But just because she was peculiar, did not mean the little speck of dust was anything special. No. Not special. And he would not spare a strike to see her eyes light up. Would not give her any sort of hope. Why should he? No matter what the ache in his chest tried to convince him of, this tiny creature was wholly insignificant. There had been no mention nor proclamation of new saints, martyrs, or prophets. Heaven was silent, and he would not encourage any kind of adoration. Let a human know what it felt like, he thought with a spiteful well in his throat, to be abandoned and unloved by their maker. Let a human come to know Hell through absence. Through neglect. Through silence. He would certainly at least be entertained by it being another creature-besides himself of course-to suffer for a lack of Father’s love.

How strong was a clay heart compared to one of fire, he wondered? How long could it endure before it crumbled to pieces?

Now he stared down at her. Long, tired black hair, colored like ink.  Her jet black eyelashes lay on her cheeks as she slept. Her lips were parted just slightly with the coming and going of her breath. Only the mirrors of her eyes were hidden from him. Everything else about her lay sprawled before him like an open book. Her hopes, her fears; her dreams, her own demons. She slept in that cold darkness, and walked about on Earth as she did. It was a sacrifice of one world for another; he kept her in sacred manner here; it was their way of staying connected. Even with so much distance between them.

“Gather your strength.” He’d whispered to her, as he’d ushered her to cold slumber. “I’ll send for you, when you’re capable of making the journey.

“Will you stay with me. . .?” her still tony voice had jingled at him. She’d looked at him with those same silver mirrors glimmering. “Can I talk to you? Will you hear me?

A hint of something amused had wrestled it’s way to the surface of his sorrow and somehow lifted the corner of his mouth. “Always. . . ” it was the only word he could muster.

She smiled, too. Something weighted, like his own gaze. It was a look heavy with loss. It was a reluctant goodbye. A never knowing when they would meet again.

He’d swiped a thumb at the corner of her eye. Leaned in then, and pressed soft lips to her forehead as she’d breathed once more, letting her eyes drift shut. He’d watched the frost patterns lick their way up her powder white skin, listened to her pulse hammer once . . then twice. . . then still from a steady rhythm to something faraway and lacking. Listened to her breath halt, felt her body slacken to the touch. Felt the spirit leave. Felt gravity pull it  back to a waking, mortal world. And just like that, ice had her, and she was gone.

He’d wept.

He always wept.

As though his tears could bring her back.

As though tears could thaw her.

Distance. Cold. Darkness. That was his curse. That was his eternal despair.

It was that he had to let her go. 

That he had to leave her to the same hell. The same absence. Oh yes; once, he’d thought it would do a mortal well to live through Hell; to know The Devil.

Now, he would do anything to spare her from it.

Heaven, as always, remained silent.

I have a huge problem with this idea; frankly it’s invalidating to a lot of cultures. And on top of that, someone recently countered with ‘well it’s OK if indigenous peoples do it but only for them’.

So  . . . I can’t pass on messages my god tells me to because . . . I’m not FROM one of those cultures? *eyebrow*

It’s a mess. Anyway. I expect I’ll make some people angry with me, but it needs to be said. Gods will do what they want to do. I don’t care what a person’s cultural background is. If there’s a precedence (and not a cult ‘drink the koolaid’ one, I mean) for hearing them out, it might be a good idea to give them the benefit of the doubt. You don’t have to be so open minded your brain dribbles out of your ears. But entertaining a ‘what if’ might just work out in your favor now and again.

‘Don’t believe in mortal tongues for gods’.

Whew. Thank goodness gods electing followers to pass on their messages doesn’t happen in the “civilized” world. We have more common sense than to put any stock in that special snowflake syndrome. That’s for people who don’t know any better and are gullible primitives.

Right . . .?  Right?

#honestly I am so sick of this attitude #I get not buying every John Edwards and Sylvia Browne you stumble on #but come ON

“I feel I am the mouth for voices I do not know. They break my knuckles one by one until I’m on the floor in a pool of paint and aspirin. This is my blood. I can show you what it looks like without you taking a knife to my throat. I am a softened fruit.”

Via tragicvoices

The Twisted Rope

I’ve noticed over the past year or so that god-spousing is becoming a more prominent thing in our community. For those who have never heard of this concept, the idea behind it is that a human person gets married (or some other similar ceremony) to a deity. The marriage ceremony can vary person to person and deity to deity – some have a large ceremony, others don’t. What this relationship can entail is going to vary from person to person as it would with any mortal marriage – some of the marriages are more romantic, some involve sex and some don’t, some are all astral based, and others are not – it’s all very “your mileage may vary”. And of course when anything “new” comes into the community, there are people in the community who dislike that thing, and god-spousing is no exception. Many think that this is totally stupid…

View original post 2,132 more words

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Online Shrine and Devotional Space dedicated to Lucifer-Helel, The Mourning Star, The Lightning Bringer,and the Aeon of Air.

Blogger is Danyel, Pop Culture Pagan, Godspouse, Spiritworker, and Witch.

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