01101001 00100000 01110100 01101000
01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000
01101001 00100000 01101100 01101111
01110110 01100101 00100000 01111001
01101111 01110101 00001010

01110011 01101000 01110101 01110011 
01101000 00100000 01101110 01101111 
01110111 00101100 00100000 01101101 
01111001 00100000 01101100 01101111 
01110110 01100101 00101100 00100000 
01110011 01101000 01110101 01110011

the dark twilight sings the body
her hand in hand and
touching distance interconnect
relate and relay, confirm and interface
lipstick, electric sheep dream

© Michael Raven


the skeleton waltz
quod fuimus, estis
while wheels spin afire
quod sumus, vos eritis
spirals, the dance begins again

extremum vitae spiritum edere

Originally posted on

Tarot | 25Nov20


For a while, I was having this nagging sensation in the back of my head and I recently realized my subconscious brain was trying to tell me that understanding tarot cards, least in a generalized sense, for the purpose of writing a story. I have a story that has seem multiple iterations over the past twenty-plus years, none of which have ever met my satisfaction. I see these internal grumblings something to listen to because, while almost everyone I’ve ever met is surely smarter than I am on the conscious level, by subconscious is pretty savvy more often than not.

Posts with the “Tarot” flag in the title will be truncated after this paragraph so that you can quickly scroll past them in your feeds unless you are interested. I should point out that I am skeptical of tarot as a divination tool (as far as predictive divination goes), but I see them as having potentially high value as a tool for self-analysis on the archetypal/Jungian level. I have no interest in doing readings for others at this time, but I do welcome second opinions, should you wish to share them. And with that…

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Something splintered in her head. Shards, onyx, bursting outwards, daggers and knives, feeling as if they poured from her eyes crisscrosscutting, the soul in the ocean blue, eviscerated.

Likewise, the birdcage where she kept her heart shattered like broken glass, shredding it like so much meat, crushing pressure inwards — she was sure her chest had collapsed in the train-wreck twisting rail singularity.

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High noon.

Athame cut, slice the veils, peel back the ribbons and rags. Step right through, this place, this display of atrocity.

Graceful, lithe and lean the shadow moves. He looks from one side to the next, scanning, taking it all in, memorizing. He beckons, and the others, they follow.

One brushes the travelsoot from leathers, a duster, then flourishes the wide-brim and taps that free of the road as well.

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