In Messy Hugs, Loud Laughter, And
Chaos That Somehow Feels Right.

𐂡 .. Vitality is not conjured through mere racket. It’s about presence, about showing up when things start to fall apart. Everyone in De Crowther has their own space without dimming another’s light. For you, the unique and bright one this is home. 合 II. OPENING GATE—& The hallways room are still waiting for their next keeper to join the beautiful mess.

Not by the thunder of noise do we measure belonging. Here are the stations, aligned with the vintages of your days:
           𖥠 The Parents          1980—1994
           𖥠 The Aunty-Uncle  1995—1998
           𖥠 The Eldest             2000—2002
           𖥠 The Middle            2003—2006
           𖥠 The Youngest        2007—2010

Rowdy Alive. 📺 ‘09:23──Has your heart been struck by that sweet, delirious lightning: the kind that whispers to join us in syllables? (OUR TAKEN LIST.) ⓘ If your muse chamber still lies unclaimed, the family’s warmth will look for you. Scrawl your invocation in the proper form and send it to @CrowtherRobot.

So…I heard there’s a room left in this madhouse? I’m (name) or (account ID) if you’ve seen me wandering online. Carrying the face of (muse name), born in (year of birth). Ready to claim my corner, splash a little chaos, and add warmth that never really quiets down as (figure)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ      R.Hㅤ    /        ✷
          QUIETER NOW: THOUGH THE SILENCE WONT
          LAST. “Mischief stirring” / Someone singing at
          an ungodly hour. Stories spill through the night,
          the marrow of their chaos: tender, untidy love.
          In that sweet disorder, may you find your laughter,
          your corner in @DeCrowther, your kin.

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ❋•⊱..

(𝘚𝘌𝘙𝘈𝘗𝘏𝘐𝘊 𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘌𝘚𝘚) 𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗥𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗢𝗗𝗘 𝗨𝗣𝗢𝗡 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗘𝗙𝗙𝗟𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘.
𝘈𝘕 𝘌𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓 𝘗𝘈𝘕𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘈 𝘞𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘐𝘋𝘌𝘚 𝘐𝘕 𝘓𝘜𝘚𝘛𝘙𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕 ──────────────────

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ❋•⊱..

𝟏𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞,
𝑀𝑦𝑡ℎ 𝑂𝑓 𝐷𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟.

Curtain of sweet-toned tunes eternally arouse. ‘Twas permitting eternal placidness to embrace an olympian timelessness. Oh, there! Those miracles begin to blossom. From womb of silent quietness, flower-buds, come to stir the bonds whose have held captive all-night. Canorous euphony whose pierced dimensions, placing all souls still in idyllic silhouettes to move towards the luminescence and pure brightness. Flower-head stand to become messengers whose scatter seeds of blitheness to all corners touched by unending sacredness.
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