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Some of you know I've been dealing with some health issues for several months. I've really been struggling with returning to work and mostly, not dealing well with the pressures that come with being the boss. At all. Day by day, I've been losing all the ground I had taken in getting stronger, and started going backwards, fast. So I made a really (really) difficult decision to leave. I've been there for more than 20 years. I've moved across the country more than once, worked with thousands of people... and just like that, in about 3 more weeks, it's over. I don't have a safety net. Starting over with a clean slate is a great twist in a Hallmark movie. In real life - it's pretty damn daunting.
But I'll get healthier, and stronger - and that's really good.
And I'm moving back home, to be with my guy and my bonus daughter - and that's even better.
There's a lot of life and living to create. But first, I'm unmaking 20+ years of this life.
Wish me luck.
Feel my pulse under your fingertips as your claws press into my skin. Feel me tremble as the heat of your touch becomes fire in my veins.
I need you. God, do I need you.
And then you kiss me. You kiss me, and the entire world dissolves away. I'm nothing. The only thing left is the burning need to feel your skin, your lips, your teeth, and your claws.
Undress me. Unmake me. Consume me.
*A big thank you to Charlie, thank you for being so patient, Love*
Hermes, as a Greek god and living in and using nature, never made nature. Just like us. What we can do is unmaking nature. Fuji X-E2, a 2x teleconverter, and the Helios 44M-7 wide-open.
FALLON LINGERIE x LA ROSA TATTOO
A SWANK WINTER WONDERLAND EXCLUSIVE
There is a moment… just before desire fractures into need… when a man forgets himself. When his breath tightens, his pupils widen, and all logic dissolves into a single, exquisite thought:
"I want to take her."
Tonight, I choose to live in that moment.
As I slip into the Fallon Lingerie by VV Paris, I feel the air change around me—an invisible current of hunger threading through the room. This lace, sourced from the legendary ateliers of Calais, drapes over my body like a whispered sin. It follows every curve, charts every hollow, and frames me in a way no modest garment ever dares.
Women throughout history understood this power.
Marlene Dietrich… Ava Gardner… Sophia Loren… the original temptresses who knew that sheer lace and exposed skin could unmake a man long before a single kiss was given. They weaponized femininity, dissolving kingdoms with garter straps and reshaping empires with a sultry glance.
And now, with Fallon gripping my waist and slipping between the arch of my back and the swell of my hips, I step into their lineage—reborn, refined, and ready to ruin a man’s resolve with one slow, hungry look.
But tonight I am more than lace. I am art… carved into skin.
The La Rosa Full Body Tattoo Set by Venus Tattoos blooms across me like an erotic fresco—roses curling over my thighs, petals and ink trailing up my ribs, a garden of temptation pressed against every breath I take. These tattoos are not merely decoration—they are invitation, declaration, and seduction intertwined.
A man seeing me like this… his will doesn’t stand a chance.
To sharpen the intoxication, I paint my lips with the Jumo Joana Lips—six glossy HD shades for Lelutka EvoX that make my mouth look delicious, kiss-swollen, and undeniably made for sin. Then I crown my gaze with the Jumo Elven Crystal Eyeshadows—20 jewel-bright colors, each turning my eyes into shimmering traps no man escapes.
Together, the lingerie, the tattoos, the lips, the crystals…
They blend into something dangerously close to fantasy—an alchemy of lust and elegance that awakens every dormant desire in the male body.
I am the curve he wants to grip… the mouth he wants to taste… the temptation he wants to claim slowly, deeply, completely.
And he knows it.
PACKAGE DETAILS
Fallon Lingerie by VV Paris
• BOM Layers
• Lace from Calais
• Appliers for Maitreya, GEN.X, and Omega
• 22 lace textures ranging from soft neutrals to raven-dark seductions
• Delicate front plunge, sculpted lace hips, and strappy back for maximum visual torment
Jumo Joana Lips (Lelutka EvoX)
• 6 high-definition glossy shades
• Sculpted shine and depth that make lips appear fuller, wetter, and irresistibly kissable
Jumo Elven Crystals Eyeshadows (Lelutka EvoX)
• 20 shimmering gemstone tones
• Resizable mesh
• Ultra-luminous crystal effect that transforms the eyes into seductive weapons
Venus Tattoos – La Rosa Full Body Set
• BOM, Unisex
• Full Body, Arms, Legs, Chest, Back, Upper & Lower combined options
• Fresh, Faded, Aged, and Old tattoo styles
• Color, No-White, Black, White, and Black-Tint versions
• 163 tattoo layers in the fatpack
Every curve I show you… every inch of lace… every traced rose petal… is available now, exclusively at the Swank Winter Wonderland Event:
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Swank%20Events/128/124/39
Come find me there… if you dare test how much desire a man can withstand.
And as one iconic pornstar once whispered with a wicked smile:
"If you’re going to crave me… crave me with everything you’ve got."
I had fun late yesterday afternoon making my alternative xmas tree. It was such a wet day though that I only got down there a few minutes before sunset, so it was a mad panic to find the materials. This was a dark leaving shot, after my unmaking things. It's nice to be all alone on the beach as the light fades. The Waves at Night is by Phosphorescent.
Oh eyes of my beloved, forget me...
Oh echoes of their faces, spare me your tears...
Release me, just let me go...
Oh vastness of the roads...
Oh infinite paths, unmake me...
Oh infinite paths, unmake me, unmake me..
remembering a time
when 17 was a rhyme
not a reason for being sane
nor a place to live in vane
when rainbows were heavenly
when clouds were so slovenly
full of water and coolness
and rainbows were happy faces
now seems like forever
that there is a never never time
right here with seemingly no rhythm or rhyme
rainbow are now weapons
not heavenly embraces
no love lost or places
to go and say hello
march and scream and yell things
obscene
color your faces
without traces
of smiles or love
now love has a price
made of gender and bearing
not caring
not sharing
only marching and screaming and yelling
obscenely of a demand for a right
that gives God no delight
when He makes a man
He gets it right
and its a gift of His delight
for a woman to have her love
a grace, kindness and act
of such tenderness that only
whispers in the night
floating
her perfection gives honor to the universe
a woman is a gift that God has given to all of us
a woman is an act of love only admired
by the Lord Himself.
He alone can unmake such beauty
and He alone.
You might think she is distant—
cold, untouchable, made of stone.
But you’d be wrong.
Look closer.
There’s a fire beneath her stillness,
a love so vast it could unmake you
if she ever let it all pour out.
But she won’t.
Not because she’s afraid—
but because she’s learned.
This world feeds on the soft,
twists kindness into weakness,
and drains the generous dry.
So she guards her heart like a treasure,
buried in a fortress of grace and steel.
She lets you see the edges—
a glimmer here, a flicker there—
enough to warm you,
never enough to burn her.
What you’re seeing is not emptiness.
It is protection.
It is wisdom shaped by wounds.
And it is love—
still whole, still powerful,
waiting for a world worthy of it.
_ Lumevea
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
The empty streets
The songs of twilight
The clouds at rest
The church bells chiming
A scarecrow shudders
And some birds tremble
I looked at you and saw it's time
The faded flowers
The faded pictures
Of faded lives
Your body waiting
And unfulfilled
With no regrets
And empty heart
And head in hands
I heard them say today it's time
The sunset heavy
On mother mountain
The cattle lowing
The cattle dreaming
The endless rain
In haunted airs
Your loss of hope
We were shown
We were shown it's only time
The smell of rain
The twilight leaning
Against your lips
Waterwheels turning
The forests brooding
You took my hand
And pointed full of pain
That fishes dying
You see the sign that this was time
I waited years for you
Or so it seemed
And stumbled through your world
Praying for just one kiss
To stop my fall from grace
And shelter in your palm
You gave me everything
Both lock and key
The oil clouds see it's only time
If I could have one wish
As in the fairy tales
I would unmake my past
And rise like Lazarus
And stand in sunlight
And banish all the dark
That locked my face away
And say to you again
Oh that
That was only time
So willow weep not for me
And oak bend not for me
Though others died for us
And in our place
Though in the secret heart
Raw wound, raw source of all
I heard the news today
Whispered in the dark
At last
At last we know it's time
I knew at last it's only time
I'll come in glory
End of story [νοτ]
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
The revival protocol is complete
The revival protocol is complete, rebooting my biology. The GRIP holds me, a psychical pressure of my magnified self, exposed by the anomaly. Here, I meet a reflection of myself with crimson eyes, the colour of cosmic decay. It projects, "You see the beauty, don't you? The flawless logic of a 45 per cent probability was never about survival. It was about the sublime perfection of this…unmaking."
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graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
“Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, Nor time unmake what poets know” Ralph Waldo Emerson
I took this in between Christmas and new year and nearly rejected it as it lacked a certain something. Because the weather is so grey and wet today, I decided to play around with it in PS and added a green filter which brought all the colours out. Photos like this are the reason I never delete any from my computer. The illness is called photodeleteobia.
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
We are all making it up as we go along, unmaking our minds and remaking ourselves.
_________________________
________________________
Hair:
[NYNE] - Niva - DUBAI Event
Outfit:
Blueberry -Julia Jackets & Leggins-
Boots :
CandyDoll - Claudia Boots - FaMESHed
Backdrop & Pose:
FOXCITY. Photo Booth - ClubBLACK // Pose: -Posh-4
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds
don't tell me deluge. don't tell me heat, too damned much heat… By D.A. Powell
Fort Sumner, NM. I've been reading Ned Blackhawk's "The Rediscovery of America: Native Peoples and the Unmaking of U. S. History," and when I hit an item on Fort Sumner, I remember we'd briefly stopped at it while driving back to Santa Fe from Clovis in 2017. The word "genocide" wasn't coined until the mid 20th C, but it's pretty clear that that's what settlers and U.S. government armies did to Native Americans. Some leaders called for their extermination, and in other cases (you might have heard) the US provided Native Americans with blankets full of smallpox. Treaties like the one alluded to in the sign were often forced upon them, and later ignored.
More about Fort Sumner and what happened here.
Done in Ai, Finalized in Photoshop.
“Where once oaths were made, and now only echoes remain.”
What remains of ancient tombs, forgotten keeps, and broken villages lies scattered across a scarred plain — fractured ruins crowned with ash, bound in threadless silence. Once sacred, now hollow.
At the center rises a massive broken arch, split by veins of red unraveling light. It is said the Vorenth gather here — not to build, not to destroy, but to unmake. This land no longer remembers its name. Only what was lost.
Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, nor time unmake what poets know.
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
Please view large. Press ‘view larger’ button.
High upon the solemn heights, where the air, crisp and unburdened by the noise of man, whispers with the voice of eternity, the world unfurls in a spectacle of quiet grandeur. Here, upon the shoulders of the Southern Alps, the Earth reveals a tale both magnificent and mournful—a testament to the slow undoing of nature's ancient might.
Before me, a lake of unearthly hue spreads like a celestial mirror, the water a shade so deep and lustrous that it seems born not of earth but of some dream woven from the sky itself. And yet, this nameless lake, still young upon the land, is no gift of the ages—it is the wound left behind by the retreating glacier, a relic of ice undone by the march of time. What once was a mighty, unyielding expanse of frozen grandeur has now given way to water, the cold bones of its passing scattered in rivulets that glisten between the stark, worn stones.
The mountains rise in solemn witness, their jagged spires black against the heavens, the ridges cut by eons of wind and storm. Shadows stretch long across the rock, as though mourning the slow vanishing of the glacier’s breath. Amidst their grey faces, streaks of pale green whisper of minerals long buried, exposed now to the light after centuries hidden beneath ice’s unyielding grasp. The glacier itself lingers still, but its presence is no longer dominion, only a retreating specter, its edges melting into trickling streams that carve their uncertain path into the abyss below.
And there—tiny pools of blue, scattered across the fractured earth, like the tears of a world grieving its own unmaking. They are the echoes of what was, their soft reflections catching the sky’s shifting moods, cradling clouds within their fragile embrace. A delicate dusting of snow clings to the last vestiges of the glacier, a mere whisper of the once-mighty force that held dominion over this realm. How long, I wonder, before even this last remnant vanishes? Before this place, once eternal in its icy stillness, succumbs to the will of the warming world?
The wind stirs, curling over the ridges, an invisible hand tracing the scars of the land. It carries with it a lament—a voice ancient and unheeded, murmuring through the valleys. How many such places have been lost, unnoticed save by the silent mountains? How many more will follow, vanishing before man’s hurried step, before his restless ambition?
Yet, in this moment, the world stands still. The lake, newborn yet already ancient in its sorrow, rests in the arms of the stone. Clouds gather in quiet reverence above, their forms shifting, transient, much like all things that claim eternity yet are bound to fade. And I, but a fleeting wanderer in time’s great river, am left to ponder: What does it mean to witness change? To stand at the threshold of loss and beauty intertwined?
For though the glacier wanes, though the ice slips ever backward, the mountains endure. The sky still watches. And the water, now free, sings its own song—soft, unhurried, yet insistent, a whisper of what has been and what will come. And so the world turns, indifferent yet full of quiet grace, moving ever forward in the inexorable passage of time.
And I, a poet in the presence of such vastness, am left only to listen.
“To have great pain is to have certainty; to hear that another person has pain is to have doubt.”
― Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World
Chalk Dust Rebellion: replaces linear rebellion with ephemeral residue; the idea of defiance that doesn’t need to leave permanent marks. The black chalk dust symbolizes boundary lines that once existed but have been erased, smudged, or transformed. It’s about impermanence as protest, soft resistance, and the deliberate act of unmaking structure.
In the quiet green expanse,
the earth fractures into intention; a will not born of weather
but of an older, silent calculus.
Lines stretch like incantations,
rows tightening around an idea
that refuses to be organic.
And from those trembling contours
the artifact blooms; a shard of impossible architecture,
mirroring the land
as a wound mirrors its origin.
Touch it,
and the soil hums with recognition,
as if the field had been awaiting you,
not as a witness,
but as the next shape
it must unmake.
In the dead pulse of the forest,
something metallic breathes;
not as a machine,
not as a creature,
but as the collapse of both.
It rises where the path forgot itself,
where the roots mutter in broken dialects,
where the fog folds its spine
to listen.
The shapes gleam like forbidden organs,
chromed lungs of an unnamed era,
inflated with the static
of an abandoned cosmos.
They speak a language without vowels,
a grammar carved in rustless bone,
each syllable bending the air
until the trees lean inward,
as if ashamed of their own bark.
The forest, once sovereign,
now becomes an antechamber
to a world exiled from causality; a world that whispers its blueprints
to those who are willing
to lose themselves.
And I,
a fugitive from the familiar,
approach the metal apparition
like a pilgrim of a forbidden religion,
letting its reflections cut through me,
letting its impossible weight
rewrite the marrow of my shadow.
For in these gleaming distortions
I hear the truth no mouth can confess:
that reality fractures not with violence
but with a quiet, silver inhale;
and that every breath it takes
unmakes us.
They cross the threshold
not as birds,
but as emissaries of a wound
the world has tried too long to conceal.
Two shadows stitched with ancient breath,
their wings carved from a darker law; one older than the sky,
older than the memory that shapes the sky.
The portal opens
without sound,
a geometric scar bending inward
as if swallowing its own origin.
No light escapes it.
No hope enters.
Behind the crows
unfurls the black residue of departure; a smoke not born of fire
but of unmaking.
A trail of dissolution,
the trace left when meaning abandons form.
The forest holds its lungs still.
Even the horizon flinches
beneath their trajectory,
as though aware that flight, here,
is not movement
but verdict.
They do not return glances.
They do not carry omens.
They are the omen; the twin heralds of a rift
that refuses to heal.
And when they vanish into the fracture,
the gate seals itself
with the quiet certainty
that something has been taken
that should never
have been allowed
to leave.
Done in Ai, Finalized in Photoshop
Inspired by and Reimagined
"She speaks in the language of dying stars."
Shaped from the heart of a collapsed star, the Voidborne Oracle walks between realities, her very form a vessel for the cosmos. Her face is a churning sphere of violet storms and streaking lightning, where constellations are born and die in moments. Each gemstone upon her dark, rune-stitched armor glows with captured fragments of distant galaxies, while the staff in her hand holds a twin sphere — a smaller world of raw, unshaped creation. Within the echoing silence of her presence, fate itself feels fragile, as if a single word from her could unmake the threads that bind the universe.
From the spine of the world
something awakens; sharp, luminous, unrepentant.
It crawls out of the fog
like a memory refusing burial,
each facet glinting with the weight
of a vanished geometry.
Forests hold their breath,
the ground folds its shadows
into a darker obedience,
and the sky drifts backward
as though unmaking dawn.
Here, at the edge of the field,
the monument waits; not to be worshipped,
but to be remembered
in the marrow,
where extinction begins
its quiet work.