The Vignette Vault Of Veracity

Strings and Threads

I saw six-six-six like a hex in sequence,
brick-laced breath where the debt gets frequent—
ticking like clocks in a rust-worn prism,
licking the locks of a guilt-born system.

I was knee-deep in neon needs,
feeding fleas off diamond greed,
planting seeds in broken clocks,
praying for balance inside the rot.

Then came 2-2-2-2, all whisper and mirror,
like a choir of ghosts in a four-frame era.
They hummed: "Stillness ain’t silence.
Your war is a violin tuned by violence."

Truth in the tremble. Calm in the glitch.
The devil wears numbers but karma don’t twitch.
You’re not cursed—you’re caught in a loop,
between what you crave and the things you knew.

See:
Sixes are weights when you won’t let go.
Twos are lanterns where the real ones glow.
And you? You’re a hallway painted in dust,
between the vault of instinct and the temple of trust.

So choose:
Keep dancing with phantoms for counterfeit peace,
or step where the pattern unravels and breathes.
The code ain’t demonic—it’s diagnostic.
Your shadow ain’t evil—it’s chaotic logic.

Numbers don’t judge, they just align.
And all signs point back
to the center of time.