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Miyuxen

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I play on an OLED Steam Deck as my primary device for now sorry friends.

𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓪𝓬𝓮, 𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼. 𝓘 𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼. 𝓘𝓷 𝓪 𝓼𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓬𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮, 𝓘 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓹𝓽𝓱𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂𝓽𝓱. 𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓘 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓬𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻?

Į̷̧̖̥̼͍̓͛͑̑̇͋̓̾͝͠ ̸̪͈͍̓́̐͑̽̚͘͜ḩ̷̙̃͊o̸̡̪̩͕̺͓͈̯͌͗̔p̷̧̡̧̛͓͕͉̙̪̩͋͂̂̊̏͘͘͠͠e̸͙͌͑̎̿ ̴̙͓̪̺͗́Į̵̳͙̱͗͐̄'̸̨̟͍͎̭̜̎̌͐́̈́̆l̶̮̳̝̞̜̜̤͓̐̔l̷̨̪̦̫̤̥͌̏ͅ ̶͍̣̖̖̥̝̹͈̞̾̽͆̑̔̕͝͝h̸͕̜͉̭̹͇̤̾̊̂͛͒̀̑͒̽̅a̶̬͆v̷̼͆ͅȩ̷̛̳̭̠̼̮̻͐̎̅͒̃͠ ̶̡̻͌͗̊̋̅̌̑̑͝͝f̴̢̨̡̼̜͔͈̱̮̠̉ö̵̞͚̦u̵̬͐̐͒̌ņ̸̱̞͍͚̱̀̾̾̏̊̌̌̎̽̚d̵̨̹͕̯̄̋ ̴̠͔̼͗́̒͋͗͝ý̴̨̯̜̮͕́̕͝ỏ̶̢̡̻̦̲̖͚̯͇͘ȗ̶̝̤̰͕̪̟̀̓͛̆͋̏̓͊͝ ̷̟͇̯̭̤̹̏̓͜d̴̘̠̣̉̀͒͌̅͝͠ë̴̠͉̠̘̬́̂͆́͑̓͐͑͠͝ȅ̷̻̈́̉̃̇͝p̶̧̭̻̳̙̞̭̓̀̓ͅͅ ̸̧̛̛͇̄̀̔̔̋̅͠ẃ̸̲͂̇i̸̠͙̍̓̏͛̔͒̿̈̕͝t̴̛̺̣͎̓̔͂͐͒͘ͅh̷͔̻̍̈̋̌̉͛i̷̡̨͙̔͋̒n̴͔̜̙͓͔̄̈́̅̽̚̕̚͝ ̷͎͌͜m̴͇̱͚̞̜͖͙͈̖̪͆̌y̸̥̹̺͔̿̇̍ ̶̱̫͉̙̲͎̼̯͊̆̊̀͊͜͜͠l̸̛̳̘̗͚̤̺̝̝͎͍̒̏̍̐̂̾͘͘o̷̦͉̻̼̿̒̅̄̐͆̂v̸̨̬̲̘͙̳̟̞͐̾̏̋̄͌̿̐̕͘ͅͅȩ̷̦̝͚̣͇̱̦͌̆̆̚͝.̴̡̗̗̙͈́̾̅̊́͘͠ͅ.

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𝕆𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕤 𝕗𝕦𝕝𝕝 𝕠𝕗 𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕕𝕤,
𝕄𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕤 𝕧𝕚𝕓𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕗𝕝𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕤;
ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕣𝕖𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕟 𝕠𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕘
𝔾𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕦𝕥𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤.
ℂ𝕝𝕠𝕦𝕕𝕤 𝕔𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕟,
𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 𝕓𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕗𝕦𝕝 𝕦𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖
𝕋𝕦𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕤 𝕗𝕝𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕗𝕚𝕖𝕝𝕕𝕤,
𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕕𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕤.

ℍ𝕚𝕕𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕤𝕠 𝕕𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕚𝕟 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕝𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕚𝕥,
𝕀𝕞𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕨𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕤 -
𝔸𝕣𝕖 𝕨𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕗𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕤, 𝕠𝕣 𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕝𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕤
𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕨𝕖'𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕤, 𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕤?

𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕞𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕓𝕣𝕠𝕜𝕖𝕟,
𝔽𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕕𝕠𝕟𝕖;
𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕢𝕦𝕒𝕕𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕔𝕒𝕟'𝕥 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪,
ℕ𝕠𝕣 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨𝕤 𝕖𝕩𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕦𝕚𝕤𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕟.

𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣, 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕒𝕔𝕜,
𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕘𝕦𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕟.
𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕖 𝕘𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕥𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜;
𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕨𝕖'𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟, 𝕙𝕒𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟.

𝔽𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕡𝕒𝕤𝕥,
𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣'𝕤 𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕥 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥
𝕎𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕖'𝕤 𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕕 𝕞𝕖 𝕕𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕤 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕞𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕟,
ℍ𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕞𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕟.
𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕝𝕖𝕗𝕥 𝕦𝕤 𝕔𝕣𝕚𝕡𝕡𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕘𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕗
𝔸𝕤 𝕨𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕓𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕗,
𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕒 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕤 𝕤𝕠 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥, 𝕚𝕥 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕦𝕕𝕤 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕙𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕤 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕨𝕟.

ℍ𝕚𝕕𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕤𝕠 𝕕𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕚𝕟 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕝𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕚𝕥,
𝕀𝕞𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕨𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕤 -
𝔸𝕣𝕖 𝕨𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕗𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕤, 𝕠𝕣 𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕝𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕤
𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕨𝕖'𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕤, 𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕤?

𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣, 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕒𝕔𝕜,
𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕘𝕦𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕟.
𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕖 𝕘𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕥𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜;
ℍ𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕨𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕗𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕧𝕒𝕚𝕟? 𝔽𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕧𝕒𝕚𝕟?

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