Skittles did not know the name Laleham.
But the trees did.

They whispered it when the wind blew uphill from the gardens. Laleham, they rustled, the house that once stood with a half-acre of laughter, where a mother sang and a father smiled too often. A house with walls like warm bread and shadows that listened gently. A house where three brothers played: Julian, Aldous, and Trevenen.

Trevenen was the smallest, the one the trees liked best. He would climb into their arms and read them poems. He would cry beneath their roots when no one else could see. The trees loved Trevenen so much that they pressed his name into their rings. And when the white-purity men came with axes of law and maps of efficiency, the trees bled quietly — but did not forget.

Years passed. The garden shrank. The laughter faded. The house became Huxley Close. Polite, prim, and razed.

But the memory did not die.

And so, when Skittles stumbled upon the grove, long after names had turned to noise, he didn’t know what he was walking into — only that the dirt remembered pain. And hope. And Trevenen.

The goblin had come to bury silver. Real silver. For Blossoms. For children who would know joy without chains. For girls whose names were songs: Freya, Penelope, Cassia, Helena, Mirai. And maybe, if she allowed it, even Rain-Eyes — the one who did not pull when she held your name.

But before the silver could be hidden, he found the sign. Bright orange. Nailed to the tallest tree like an insult.

“Dangerous. Marked for removal.”

Skittles read it with his shoulder. His eyes couldn’t read much, but his scars could. It was the same mark they once painted on him before they threw him over the fence. “Bad for the neighborhood,” they said. “Too much of a smell. Not enough of a future.”

So Skittles did what goblins do when they love something too much: he stole it.
He tore down the sign with his moss-paws and scurried down the hill. He burned the paper in a fire of vinegar and bark. And when the smoke stung his eyes, he whispered a name he did not know he knew: Trevenen.

Then he climbed back up before sunrise, a pot of wood-stain tied to his chain-sack, and painted over the orange dot. Carefully. Lovingly. Like an apology.

The tree sighed.

It would still be cut down. He knew that. Just like the ones at Laleham. Just like the memory of a pretty little boy with a big head and brothers who teased and loved him. Just like Trevenen, who vanished quietly like a question no one dared to ask.

But Skittles had made a promise — not with words, but with action. And the trees understood.

He buried the treasure that day under the tallest root. Real silver. One spoon for each Blossom. A bell for every forgotten mother. A mirror that didn’t show your face but your stillness. And a button. A magic button that, when pressed, would make the trees remember Laleham.

And maybe, for a moment, remember you.

Sniff. I done good today. Caught three grubs and one stone that looked like meat. My lucky day, they’ll say. They always say.

“Hard goblin is a happy goblin,” said the man with the belt. He used to laugh like boiling. I miss him when I’m cold.

I was dragging my chain-sack full of moss (they like the moss soft and moaning) and I saw a not-wall. Big not-wall with lines in it, like teeth, but closed. It was standing up like a tree that knew too much. Sniff.

I don’t know what it’s called. Maybe a work-mouth. Or a shut-crack. Or a promise.

I scratched it with my tool-finger. The one that got flattened for opening the grain-witch’s drawer. It sounded like inside-heads. Like when someone’s deciding if you deserve soup.

I thought maybe I was bad. Or lucky.

There were words carved on the not-wall, but they hid when I looked. Probably didn’t want to get in trouble.

“Only the loyal get light,” said the sack-man. He had one ear and a dog name. He used to throw me over fences for fun. I always said thank you. That’s how he knew I liked it.

The not-wall had a hole like a thinking-eye. I peeped.

There was a nothing on the other side.

Not dark.
Not noise.
Not whip.

Just… hush. A kind hush. Like the feeling you get right before someone forgets your name.

I said, “I brought your moss. It’s stroked and blessed.” But the not-wall didn’t eat it. It just stood there breathing slow.

Sniff. I think it’s waiting to be punished.

I sat near it, like a good goblin. Maybe I’ll get a story. Or a licking. Or both.

Sometimes I dream about rain that doesn’t sting. Or ropes that hold your heart in. Or hands that stay soft even when they close.

And sometimes — only sometimes — I see a flicker.

Small and warm and not trying.

It has a name. I think it’s called “Rain-eyes”
I don’t know what it means.
But the sound makes the dirt feel less hungry.

Rain-eyes has eyes like new holes in the sky.
She smells like no chains.
She holds my name with both hands, but doesn’t pull.

In the dream, she says, “You can sleep now.”

But I always wake up before the sleeping part.

Anyway, the not-wall is still there.

If I sit long enough, maybe Rain-eyes will come through it.
Maybe she’s on the other side.
Maybe she built the hush.

Sniff.

I’ll stay here.
I’ll wait.
I’ll be good.

Icarus

“As above, the spiral coils—
not to ascend, but to fold
into the breath before breath.

Within this wheel:
the ouroboric aeon sleeps,
curled ’round a girl who names herself
after the star
that forgot how to burn.

Dragons do not write prophecies.
They inscribe them in blood and weather.
Astra’s lineage hums in nested glyphs,
encoded in the marrow,
read only in thunder.

This mandala is not for balance.”

Dear Mr Hearkening

I am sorry I have missed your call, and yet you were on a journey I could not partake.
You’ve been down this drive, around the desert, found a coin at the Needles
Treasure you almost liked to share
With me

And yet in the twisted peak scenario, I was not a student
But a vessel, and it broke.

You discarded me, and I you, only to discover you had died behind my back.

Onto the level of zazen, where you escape the building only to ascend

You left us behind – the daughter of wisdom, the boy that lets God be gracious, and the prosperous mother of your children.

In truth, I have heard that she left you behind and onto her own journey.

Sorry, not sorry

Ave atque vale

He said:

what is the etymological root of the name Λάνθιμος

It said:

The name Λάνθιμος (Lánthimos), as in the surname of Greek film director Yorgos Lanthimos, appears to be of Greek origin but is quite rare and its precise etymological root is unclear. Here’s a breakdown of what can be inferred:

Possible Elements in the Name:

1. Λανθ- (Lanth-)
   • This root resembles the ancient Greek verb λανθάνω (lanthánō), meaning:
     • “to escape notice,”
     • “to be hidden,” or
     • “to forget” (in some constructions, as in lethe, λήθη = oblivion).
   • Example: λανθάνω τινά = “I escape someone’s notice.”
2. -ιμος (-imos)
   • A common suffix in Greek used in adjectives or names.
   • While not itself meaningful, it can indicate a characteristic or state.

Hypothetical Meaning:

Putting this together, Λάνθιμος could etymologically relate to something like:

“one who is hidden” or “obscured,” possibly metaphorical for someone reserved, unknown, or mysterious.

Important Caveat:

There’s no definitive scholarly record tracing Λάνθιμος to a specific ancient or Byzantine term, so this is speculative based on morphological analysis. The name may also be patronymic or regional, rather than purely etymological in meaning.

Would you like help researching similar Greek surnames or naming patterns?

He said:

how about we call him george the obscure? He’s a bit nutty, right?

It said:

“George the Obscure” — now that’s a fitting moniker! Given the eerie surrealism, emotional detachment, and moral ambiguity in Lanthimos’s films, it suits him almost too well. A bit nutty? Definitely — but in that precision-crafted, deadpan, unsettling way that makes you laugh and squirm at the same time.

Like:

• Dogtooth: Home-schooling meets psychological warfare.
• The Lobster: Tinder meets dystopia.
• The Favourite: Court politics as a savage slapstick tragedy.

So yes — George the Obscure, patron saint of elegant weirdness — has a nice ring to it.

Want to coin a full absurd Greek-style epithet for him? I’m game.

He said:

go on then

It said:

Alright, let’s crown him properly. Here’s a full absurd Greek-style epithet for George the Obscure:

Γεώργιος ὁ Ἀσαφής,
ὁ Τετραπλόκαμος τῶν Παραδόξων,
ὁ Κυνοδοντοφόρος,
ὁ Τον Λόγον Φεύγων καὶ Τὴν Σιωπὴν Διδάσκων.

Geṓrgios ho Asaphḗs,
ho Tetraplókam̱os tōn Parádoxōn,
ho Kynodontophóros,
ho Ton Lógon Pheúgōn kaì Tēn Siōpḗn Didáskōn.

Translation:

George the Obscure,
the Fourfold-Weaver of Paradoxes,
Bearer of the Dogtooth,
He Who Flees Speech and Teaches Silence.

It’s got the right touch of mock-epic gravity, don’t you think? Want to add a tragic backstory or a mythical creature sidekick for full effect?

He said:

I went to school and was taught silence. I am not a fast learner.

this lynching is burning me

tiberius the voyager reads the second book of evil

here’s a hacked sonnet, forced down

homeless tears, indigo-nous rain

burning blue rose

implosion of anger

another take, please.

this growing factory of phantasms

hatched forest of guilt

two opposing missiles, 160-times father from sunshine

beyond the confines of the law

the proxim-a star died of radioactive poisoning

purple wave in a black and white song

here comes the lunch break