My Magical Musical Life
The life of a modern musical witch.
My Magical Musical Life
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necro-mance:

✖️
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metalandfucktheworld:

maya wallpaper |_mmmaya_| on We Heart It.
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autumns-in-egypt:

New Witch here )O( Follow me for a witches dream
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charmcore:

From time to time it becomes necessary to retreat to my sea-cave to reflect upon Enigmas and to ensure that I do not “”“freak out”“” about the state of this realm.  There is a strange comfort to a sea-cave, though before you claim that you would simply LOVE to visit, you must remember that a witch wears the pounding, frigid ocean like a warm, silk mantle.  Sightless would find no comfort here.  The echoes alone.  And also that I thirst for Solitude so profoundly that I would literally be so rude to you.  You have not yet reckoned with the rudeness of a witch if you are still considering.
In my sea cave, I recollect my witch-place.  I must remember that it is not for me to Turn the Wheel nor to presume the burden of those Turned within.  Is this the sinister twisting of the maelstrom Moskstraumen they cry to know?  Or merely an eddy in a muddy but forward-flowing stream?  The Wheel confounds me still.  I cannot say.
I shall let you know how the pondering goes.  For the time being please forward all moth emissaries to the twisted birch which casts no shadow.  Thx in advance.
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charmcore:

For those weavers of magicks peering out their windows to find yet another summer rain descendeth from the gray canopy above, might I suggest instead of wandering into reveries or falling back decadently in your goosedown bed to sink into the Napping Netherworld, that you take a breath of a moment to collect at least a few vials of this particular precipitation.
Stopper them, store them for now (mine will be filed between “St. Joan of Arc - fingernail” and “swamp milkweed”), and smile in the months hence when you find a vexing potion with the most perplexing omissions bends to your will with the addition of only a few drops of the charmed liquid within.
And should you find yourself traversing an open field ‘neath these warm rains, dark heart soaring, concerned not at all with the earth clinging to the hem of your garment, text me because I will come meet you.
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The Power of the Witch (1971)