"Tell me something I don't know." ✍️
All his life, Oscar Borealis has been left with nothing but empty promises. His fate; interwoven with heartache, the family business, a kickass parasol, and an undying passion for Wonder; the magic of this world...
After finding the best runway for Winslow to ascend, you raise a pentagram-gloved-palm from your laxed composure and surge, "Winslow, take Flight."
Winslow's demonic-iris brightens the amethyst sky, as he coasts in a crescendoing loop de loop over you and your sister's bunned-up head, hitching the two of you off of your footing. You brace a firm grasp over Aurora's feather-enthralled-hat before it breezes over the treetops.
The lingering stars twinkled into clarity.
Aurora proceeds to flash her teeth in your general direction, as she surfaces over Winslow's pole like a tight-rope walker. Dusting her chest, she clamps a fist to her heart and raises the other hand in plea to the stars, "Constellations glittering far and wide, exempt yourself, and become our guide."
A never-ending channel of circles halo themselves amid your path, as a beam of light refracts past each of them on your destined journey home.
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On our tranquil escapade for Borealis Estate - with nothing much to discern over orientation... other than the cheek-flushing encounter that was made this morning...
I fell into an unconscious slumber, as my archived memories unveiled a childhood secret that's been kept for Eterna.
How one ethereal season, my stars aligned with a sleep-paralysis demon; namedWinslow.
~ Life doesn't prepare you for sleep paralysis, when you're the age of eight.
Every transient Summer, my curious dreams ceased over one indistinguishable night, as a nightmare transpired in a chilling neigh.
There my heart pitter-pattered, screamingly paralyzed. Conscious of the blaringly silent void as it vortexed my room into a black hole.
It was in those dreams, I encountered an onyx silhouette, who'd hover over my head and sneer inaudibly.
I'd subconsciously named the demon Winslow...for whatever drab reason - I'd felt that was his name all along.
Sleep-Paralysis Demons are perceived as dreamwalking ghosts who derive from centuries-long ago, who restlessly search for a catalyst who'll fulfill their omniscient desires.
My bedeviled visitor bore jagged horns, expressed with a heart-tipped tail that'd whisk like a playful metronome. The only makable highlight was the gleaming inside of his blistering-white mouth, plopped by the outline of two visible fangs.
Irrationally, my eight-year-old-head confused him to be an imaginary friend, as the thought of him being a total stranger rummaging about in my head escaped all common sense.
The mysteriousity, Winslow, would fog the only window with his breath to pave messages... or rather symbols, in Demon-Script. Listening to my brother Luness's succubus friend talk for hours at a time - became a tangent I never found paying off, until now...
