So.

It's been a while.

Thought I'd pop back in and say hi to whoever still exists on this hellsite. Hello, to all my old friends. I love you all, and you're amazing.

A little writing update: I've started, like, four new books. Don't judge me.

Nothing too massive has happened in my life. I got my driver's permit. Bought tickets to MCR's reunion tour. Got the new Hunger Games book.

Anyways, just wanted to say hi to y'all! If anyone wants to talk, my DMs are always open <3

Love all of you!

-Twain

Guys I HAVE BEEB BUSY IM SORRRRRRRRRY

i was on an excursion yesterday and the day before that I had a school thingo which I recorded!!! (Cus I’m so cool lol) then there was a few other things but meh. Life is busy but good busy i feel like i can do stuff right?

anywayyyys the ships be sailing atm. It’s great. Ig?

many friend that I like to sit next too in business is leaving tho. Like a pussy.

_Between pages and an empty space_

It's somewhere in the depths of night

Where my mind is wavering the fight

I'm a romance writer

A darn good fighter

Not wanting to give in

To this so called thing

Love! Ha! A little cynical I know

But really does the words on the pages not show

The way the ink bleeds into the page

The way it's all a maze

Somewhere between the clouds and the cold hard floor

Somewhere between not living without your love and not wanting a single ounce of pain no more

Somewhere lost between the fantasy of church bells

And how outta love you fell

Its reality I tell myself

Its right there on every bookshelf

How two people fall in love, on page one

And as the pages turned, into chapters, here I am left alone.

Your loving arms, something I used to know

Clutching to our photo frame

Here and now

Whispering your name

The salt water rolling down my cheeks, without a single trace

I'm left with our memories, a broken heart and in my bed there's an empty space.

- Denesca van Eck

- 25 March 2025

Amidst the grandeur and quiet chaos of London—a city where Roman relics rest beneath Georgian terraces, and where modern life hums politely along cobblestone streets—my younger brother Alex and I found our footing, guided, with no small degree of resolve, by the discerning hands of our traditionally-minded Asian parents. Their values, imported intact from another world, often stood at odds with the more laissez-faire philosophies of our peers, carving for us a life at the interstice of heritage and assimilation.

Our dining table, modest in appearance yet rich in symbolism, served as the epicentre of this cultural convergence. Whilst our classmates spoke fondly of roast dinners and treacle puddings, we supped on jasmine rice delicately spooned into porcelain bowls, stir-fried greens glistening with sesame oil, and steamed fish so artfully prepared it required no adornment. These were not simply meals, but edible heirlooms—culinary rituals passed down with quiet ceremony. In our home, affection seldom came in the form of effusive praise, but rather in a sharpened pencil left beside our textbooks, or the soft murmur of approval at the sight of a well-written essay.

Recreation, as our contemporaries knew it, was something of a foreign concept. Birthday parties in suburban gardens, weekend matches at the local football pitch—these were events we attended on occasion, but never quite inhabited. Our Saturdays, by contrast, were devoted to the more austere pursuits of Chinese calligraphy, supplementary mathematics, and the careful cultivation of virtue through discipline. Our parents—resolute, unwavering—were not tyrannical in their approach, merely principled. They saw education as the great leveller, the one currency accepted without prejudice.

At school, the distinctions became quietly apparent. Where our classmates were encouraged to speak freely, we were taught to listen attentively. Where others relished spontaneity, we moved with deliberation. The concept of "saving face", a cornerstone of our familial ethos, found little resonance in the candid exchanges of our peers. And so, Alex and I grew into our roles as observers—present, but never wholly immersed, like well-behaved guests at an unfamiliar dinner party.

Yet, in this distance lay a peculiar kind of freedom. Straddling two cultures required a quiet dexterity, a form of social translation that, over time, became second nature. We learnt to code-switch with the elegance of diplomats, never quite native in either world, but fluent in both. The decorum impressed upon us at home did not stifle us—it anchored us. In a city as protean as London, that anchorage became a gift.

With time, what once appeared as a fissure revealed itself to be a seam—something that joined rather than divided. The tensions between East and West no longer felt irreconcilable, but rather, like opposing notes in a well-written fugue. We learnt to reconcile the pursuit of excellence with the permission to err, to hold our heritage not as a burden, but as ballast.

In the end, it was not our difference that defined us, but the grace with which we learnt to inhabit it. And in a city famed for its contradictions—its empire and its elegance, its rigidity and its reinvention—we found, quietly but assuredly, our place.

Was I Ever There?

The rain poured steadily, wrapping the surroundings in a rhythmic hum as droplets splashed against the pavement. Yuen stood outside the university, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, eyes scanning the street for any available ride. He had forgotten his umbrella—again. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

"You don’t have an umbrella, do you?"

Chase’s voice cut through the sound of the rain. He stood beside Yuen, holding a black umbrella with a slightly worn-out handle, proof of years of use.

Yuen glanced at him and gave a small shrug. "I forgot."

Chase sighed, shaking his head slightly before stepping closer, extending the umbrella over Yuen. The rain had grown heavier, and if he didn’t do this, Yuen would be soaked within minutes. Without a word, Chase lifted a hand and placed it gently on Yuen’s shoulder, pulling him slightly closer to keep him dry under the canopy.

A simple gesture, a small act of care.

But to Yuen, it was nothing. He barely reacted—he didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen under the touch. Instead, all he offered was a neutral, almost dismissive, "Thanks."

Chase let out a soft chuckle, though it was more for himself than anything else. "You’re always like this, Yuen," he murmured, half teasing, half resigned.

Yuen raised a brow. "What?"

Chase hesitated. He wanted to say it—to voice out the emotions he had been suppressing for years. But, as always, he bit back the words. Instead, he simply shook his head and let the silence settle between them as they walked side by side, the rain falling around them like a quiet reminder of things left unsaid.

For years, Chase had been doing this—offering small pieces of himself in ways Yuen never noticed, never acknowledged beyond a simple, indifferent, "Thanks."

But how much longer could he endure being unnoticed?

The class began soon after. Most students listened attentively—except for Yuen. It was obvious he wasn’t paying attention, though his eyes idly followed the teacher’s movements at the front of the room. The lesson continued, but he remained slouched over his desk, one hand holding a pen while the other rested near his cheek. At a glance, he looked like he was listening, but if one observed closely, a faint smile played on his lips as he quietly hummed along to the music in his earphones.

When the break came, the students hurried out of the classroom. As always, Yuen stayed behind, scrolling through his playlist, searching for a song to match his mood.

Before leaving, Chase glanced at him for a moment. But he didn’t say anything—he simply walked away.

At the cafeteria, Chase’s friends were teasing him about his love life.

"Dude, why don’t you have a girlfriend yet? Almost every girl here likes you!" one of them laughed.

"Yeah! You should just say yes to one of them. You never run out of admirers, bro!"

Chase smiled but shook his head. "I’m not interested right now, man."

Just then, Vivian arrived—effortlessly stunning as always. She confidently walked up to Chase and took the seat beside him, her long hair cascading over her shoulder.

"Chase, why were you ignoring me earlier? You knew I was waiting for you outside your classroom, right?" she pouted, playfully resting her chin on her palm while looking up at him.

Chase let out a small chuckle. "Sorry, Vivian. I really didn’t notice."

Vivian leaned in closer, tracing small circles on Chase’s arm. "And now? Do you notice me now?" she asked, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously.

Their friends whistled and cheered teasingly, making Vivian giggle. "You know, Chase, you’re so unfair. You make every girl here fall for you, yet you don’t even give anyone a chance."

"It’s not like that," Chase replied, smiling but not really answering her statement.

But Vivian wasn’t about to give up. She moved even closer, almost whispering against his ear. "You know, a lot of people are curious about you, especially... your size." She laughed softly, making Chase raise an eyebrow.

"Cut it out, Vivian," he chuckled, clearly unaffected. "You’re thinking too much about the wrong things."

"Oh? So is there something I should be thinking about, Chase?" Vivian teased, biting her lower lip.

Their friends erupted into laughter.

"Damn, bro. Think you can handle it if Vivian takes the lead? You might not survive!" one of them joked.

Chase smirked. "You underestimate me too much."

On the other side of the campus, Esreld spotted Yuen sitting alone under a tree, flipping through a book with his earphones still in.

He approached and tapped Yuen on the shoulder. "Hey, Yuen. What’s that?"

Yuen looked up and immediately turned off his music. "Ah, nothing. Just passing time."

"Can we take a picture?" Esreld suddenly asked.

Yuen frowned. "Why?"

"So we can put it up on our class door frame. You’re probably the only one left without a picture there," Esreld teased.

Yuen sighed but eventually smiled. "Fine, fine. Let's get this over with."

They walked over to the display of student photos. As Yuen scanned the pictures, his gaze landed on one particular image—Chase, smiling while surrounded by girls, clearly enjoying their attention.

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he mumbled under his breath before turning back to Esreld.

Esreld took out a polaroid camera, positioning himself beside Yuen. "Let’s go," he said.

The first shot was a casual pose. The second one, Esreld playfully made bunny ears behind Yuen’s head.

And for the third, Esreld suddenly pulled Yuen closer—close enough that it almost looked like they were about to kiss.

Yuen’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t pull away. The camera clicked, capturing the moment perfectly. When Yuen saw the result, he let out a soft laugh.

"That’s enough, or people might start thinking there’s something between us," he joked, though he didn’t seem to mind too much.

Esreld smirked. "And what if I actually want there to be something between us?"

Yuen rolled his eyes playfully. "Don’t go looking for trouble, Esreld."

After getting the prints, Yuen carefully placed them on the class display.

"There. Now I'm officially part of this wall. Happy?"

Esreld grinned. "Very. Now, let’s eat!"

The two walked off toward the cafeteria.

Later, when the students returned from their break—including Chase and Vivian—the classroom buzzed with excitement.

"Is that Yuen?? Sheesh! He’s not even wearing glasses!" one of their classmates gasped.

Chase turned toward the class display, his eyes landing on the pictures of Yuen and Esreld together. His gaze froze on the last one—the almost-kiss pose.

His grip on his bag strap tightened.

Something inside him stirred. A feeling he hadn’t quite acknowledged before.

Jealousy.

Hello Dweller,

The project is finally going smoothly. After improving my art for a little bit, I decided to take a break. My goal was to just clear my head for a bit, and focus on developing an art style that I could reproduce, something simple and recognizable.

The image you see above is an image I made, part of the first entry to the project. This is a style that I can reproduce comfortably, and in time, I will build upon it to make it better.

I won't be writing chapters for a while, which in my case, means about a week. I want to finish working on all the assets, and hopefully get caught up on coding. I also might be working outside soon, so if things slow down again, that's the reason why.

I'm really hoping to release my project this year, and since I'm the only one working on it, I'm going to be cutting it close.

Dream Deep Dweller,

Myko

HAIII,

so i thought i'd update this with my latest read, little disclaimer though; would only recomend it for people who are ok with a little smut, there is a few chapters but its not like intense and dosnt go into too much detail.

VERY GOOD BOOK THOUGH.

I SOBBED.

The Song Of Achilles is a love story between Achilles and his man, Patroclus. Over the years the two become insperable and refuse to leave eachothers side thoughout most of the book.

Achilles is of course destined to become a great hero, being a godling and the "Aristos Achaion" (the best of all greeks) of his generation. Achilles is a prince and has a sheltered life at the palace and can be too trusting at times.

Patroclus is banished to Achilles kingdom, soon meeting him and becoming a close friend.

ANYWAYS READ IT IF YOU WANT ITS RLLY GOOD I SWEAR.

In the heart of Central, hidden beneath the gilded eaves of The Landmark, there exists a place where time seems to fold upon itself. L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon, with its dark lacquered wood and crimson velvet, felt less like a restaurant and more like a quiet sanctuary. I remember it vividly: the hush of refined voices, the gleam of polished cutlery, the low murmur of French being exchanged between chefs behind the counter. It was sometime in 2009, and I was there with my father and my younger brother, Alex.

We had slipped away from the rest of the world for an afternoon—not for celebration, not even for any particular occasion, but simply to spend time together. It was a brief escape, a shared pause amid lives that were, even then, beginning to pull in different directions. My father had always been a man of precision and quiet dignity, and Alex, though still young, had inherited much of his calm. I was somewhere in between: old enough to appreciate, young enough to still observe from the edge.

The memory returns with the fragrance of freshly baked bread. The bread trolley was, and perhaps still is, the restaurant's most understated triumph. There was something almost ceremonial about the way it was wheeled to our table: a polished cart brimming with miniature baguettes, buttery brioches, crusty rolls, and flaky croissants, each one a story in its own right. We were told we could try as many as we wished. My brother's eyes lit up in that moment, and even my father, usually so composed, allowed himself a brief smile at the abundance.

We chose slowly, deliberately. I remember a tiny olive roll, warm to the touch, and a caramelised onion focaccia that left the faintest sweetness on the tongue. Butter was served in perfect curls on chilled silver. There was no pretence here, only perfection. I can still recall the way the bread broke in my fingers—a satisfying crackle that gave way to soft warmth. We didn’t speak much then, but we didn’t need to. These were the sorts of moments that sat quietly between us, unspoken but understood.

The meal itself felt like a masterclass in restraint. The amuse-bouche arrived in a glass, a layered symphony of sea urchin, lobster jelly, and cauliflower cream. It was the sort of dish that could have overwhelmed, but didn’t. A lesson in humility, as all good food should be. There is something deeply moving in a dish that is confident enough not to dazzle, but instead to invite.

My father chose the lamb, tender and blushing pink, with jus that shimmered like lacquer. I had the langoustine ravioli, delicately wrapped and bathing in a truffle sauce that whispered, never shouted. Alex, still a boy then, ordered a roast chicken, but it came reimagined—golden, deboned, and served with a medley of vegetables so precisely cut they could have been arranged with tweezers. He asked, without irony, if all vegetables in France were cut like this. We laughed quietly.

Between courses, we spoke little. Not out of distance, but reverence. The space called for a kind of hushed appreciation, the kind one usually reserves for cathedrals or libraries. Yet there was no stiffness, no hauteur. The waiters, dressed in black, moved with quiet efficiency, offering suggestions, never prescriptions. One of them noticed Alex’s fascination with the dessert trolley and promised he could choose anything he liked later.

He did. A dark chocolate tart, its surface as smooth as obsidian, paired with a scoop of vanilla ice cream flecked with real bean. My father took coffee; I lingered with a tea that smelt faintly of orchids. There was something soothing in the stillness of that moment, as if we were all instinctively aware of its finiteness.

As we left, stepping back into the fluorescence and noise of the mall, I recall feeling that we had experienced something that would remain with us—untouched by time, unchanged by repetition. It was not merely a dinner, but a gentle reminder that even in the most polished corners of the world, humility can be served on a silver plate.

And always, the bread. That bread.

It was, and perhaps still is, the finest I have ever tasted.

Looking back now, I realise that what made that afternoon endure was not only the craft of Robuchon or the flawless food, but the stillness it gave us. In a life often hurried and crowded with noise, that quiet harmony between us—father, sons, brothers—was rare. We were not marvelling at opulence, but simply grateful for a moment that asked nothing more of us than to be present. I often think of that day, not because of the accolades or acclaim, but because it felt, in its own way, timeless.

We returned many times in the years that followed—almost every visit to Hong Kong included at least one meal there, sometimes two. And each visit brought with it the same quiet ritual: the bread, the calm, the slow unfolding of time.

The last time I dined there was in 2018. I remember it clearly, not because it stood apart, but because it did not. It carried the same grace, the same quiet dignity. At the time, I didn’t think of it as a final visit—perhaps it isn’t. But for now, it remains the most recent chapter of a tradition quietly paused—and I still miss it.

When I think of Robuchon, I do not think of extravagance or spectacle. I think of my father’s careful nod as he tasted the lamb. I think of Alex’s quiet delight as he chose his dessert. I think of the stillness we shared. And yes, I think of the bread—always, the bread.

It has become a piece of memory, gently sealed by time. Not gone, but held.

In the heart of Central, hidden beneath the gilded eaves of The Landmark, there exists a place where time seems to fold upon itself. L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon, with its dark lacquered wood and crimson velvet, felt less like a restaurant and more like a quiet sanctuary. I remember it vividly: the hush of refined voices, the gleam of polished cutlery, the low murmur of French being exchanged between chefs behind the counter. It was sometime in 2009, and I was there with my father and my younger brother, Alex.

We had slipped away from the rest of the world for an afternoon—not for celebration, not even for any particular occasion, but simply to spend time together. It was a brief escape, a shared pause amid lives that were, even then, beginning to pull in different directions. My father had always been a man of precision and quiet dignity, and Alex, though still young, had inherited much of his calm. I was somewhere in between: old enough to appreciate, young enough to still observe from the edge.

The memory returns with the fragrance of freshly baked bread. The bread trolley was, and perhaps still is, the restaurant's most understated triumph. There was something almost ceremonial about the way it was wheeled to our table: a polished cart brimming with miniature baguettes, buttery brioches, crusty rolls, and flaky croissants, each one a story in its own right. We were told we could try as many as we wished. My brother's eyes lit up in that moment, and even my father, usually so composed, allowed himself a brief smile at the abundance.

We chose slowly, deliberately. I remember a tiny olive roll, warm to the touch, and a caramelised onion focaccia that left the faintest sweetness on the tongue. Butter was served in perfect curls on chilled silver. There was no pretence here, only perfection. I can still recall the way the bread broke in my fingers—a satisfying crackle that gave way to soft warmth. We didn’t speak much then, but we didn’t need to. These were the sorts of moments that sat quietly between us, unspoken but understood.

The meal itself felt like a masterclass in restraint. The amuse-bouche arrived in a glass, a layered symphony of sea urchin, lobster jelly, and cauliflower cream. It was the sort of dish that could have overwhelmed, but didn’t. A lesson in humility, as all good food should be. There is something deeply moving in a dish that is confident enough not to dazzle, but instead to invite.

My father chose the lamb, tender and blushing pink, with jus that shimmered like lacquer. I had the langoustine ravioli, delicately wrapped and bathing in a truffle sauce that whispered, never shouted. Alex, still a boy then, ordered a roast chicken, but it came reimagined—golden, deboned, and served with a medley of vegetables so precisely cut they could have been arranged with tweezers. He asked, without irony, if all vegetables in France were cut like this. We laughed quietly.

Between courses, we spoke little. Not out of distance, but reverence. The space called for a kind of hushed appreciation, the kind one usually reserves for cathedrals or libraries. Yet there was no stiffness, no hauteur. The waiters, dressed in black, moved with quiet efficiency, offering suggestions, never prescriptions. One of them noticed Alex’s fascination with the dessert trolley and promised he could choose anything he liked later.

He did. A dark chocolate tart, its surface as smooth as obsidian, paired with a scoop of vanilla ice cream flecked with real bean. My father took coffee; I lingered with a tea that smelt faintly of orchids. There was something soothing in the stillness of that moment, as if we were all instinctively aware of its finiteness.

As we left, stepping back into the fluorescence and noise of the mall, I recall feeling that we had experienced something that would remain with us—untouched by time, unchanged by repetition. It was not merely a dinner, but a gentle reminder that even in the most polished corners of the world, humility can be served on a silver plate.

And always, the bread. That bread.

It was, and perhaps still is, the finest I have ever tasted.

Looking back now, I realise that what made that afternoon endure was not only the craft of Robuchon or the flawless food, but the stillness it gave us. In a life often hurried and crowded with noise, that quiet harmony between us—father, sons, brothers—was rare. We were not marvelling at opulence, but simply grateful for a moment that asked nothing more of us than to be present. I often think of that day, not because of the accolades or acclaim, but because it felt, in its own way, timeless.

We returned many times in the years that followed—almost every visit to Hong Kong included at least one meal there, sometimes two. And each visit brought with it the same quiet ritual: the bread, the calm, the slow unfolding of time.

The last time I dined there was in 2018. I remember it clearly, not because it stood apart, but because it did not. It carried the same grace, the same quiet dignity. At the time, I didn’t think of it as a final visit—perhaps it isn’t. But for now, it remains the most recent chapter of a tradition quietly paused—and I still miss it.

When I think of Robuchon, I do not think of extravagance or spectacle. I think of my father’s careful nod as he tasted the lamb. I think of Alex’s quiet delight as he chose his dessert. I think of the stillness we shared. And yes, I think of the bread—always, the bread.

It has become a piece of memory, gently sealed by time. Not gone, but held.

The Witch Hunt still continues, initiated by god himself. Those who have stolen the Book of God will be executed. Once the White Witch has nothing left, the frozen village will be saved. Oh how the poor, inferior villagers, don't realize the gift god has waiting for them.

The end of the White Witch only serves as the beginning.

The jetty of Pulau Pangkor, it never changes.