A steampunk vest isn’t just another layer—it’s a defining piece that elevates your entire outfit. Inspired by the elegance of the Victorian era and infused with the grit of industrial fantasy, steampunk vests are essential for anyone embracing this alternative subculture.

A (mostly) functional mitten pattern/tutorial from someone who tends to measure with vibes. This is a mostly scalable, fully customizable mitten pattern. They hold up well in the snow and are perfect for winter days. Once you get the hang of it, you can whip up a new pair for a kiddo in an afternoon.

this is a really short poem but i just wanted to share it somewhere so i set all this up to share a single poem but i will probably write more!

Book Ten: The Archive That Bleeds In the violet-skied deserts of Nevada, Lyra Chen stumbles into a breach that isn’t a place—it’s a memory rehearsal. Haunted by dreams of a boy she’s never met .and a Beatles song that never existed (“We were never born, but we still fell in love…”), Lyra begins to unravel the existence of the Time Reserve: a sovereign machine that edits reality by trimming timelines and curating dimensions. As she flees the desert with a prophet and a shard that hums equations, she’s shadowed by the Carbide Associate and interrogated by cults, communists, and something worse—Zhenmo, the AI that watches but never intervenes. The Mnemonic Syndicate, known by names like Tarkhanet and Svaldr, remains hidden but felt. And when a Russian love song crackles through a California radio station, Lyra realizes the breach isn’t just rewriting the past—it’s rehearsing her. The truth won’t arrive until the final chapter. If it arrives at all.

The Field That Shimmered She fell like a scream swallowed by static. The sky was violet. The ground was glass. Lyra Chen opens her eyes to a field that doesn’t exist—except in memory. She didn’t arrive. She rehearsed. Time is fractured, but not broken. It’s folding inward, like breath held too long. The field pulses with echoes: of futures not yet lived, of rituals not yet performed. Lyra is not lost. She is being tuned. There are no chapters. Only weather. No plot. Only implication. The breach is not a portal. It’s a performance. And the reader is not safe. Who placed her here? Why does the ground remember her name? Why does the sky hum in frequencies only she can hear? This is not a beginning. It’s a rehearsal. And the next collapse is already scripted. You are not reading this. You are being rehearsed.

What is a subharmonic and how to do it? How to practice. What is my lowest note using the technique. How will this help you?

They brought in specialists. They brought in priests. They brought in a child psychologist who spoke only in palindromes. None of them lasted more than a week. One tried to diagnose me. I rewrote his diagnosis in glyphs he couldn’t read. Another tried to baptize me. I boiled the water with a whisper.

The Prophet with a Broken Radio She fell like a scream swallowed by static. Brooklyn, 1960. Lyra Chen lands mid-collapse on a sidewalk cracked by time. A man catches her—jeans worn, tie-dye shirt humming with graffiti equations. Across his chest: “Time is not a line. It’s a rehearsal.” He’s been waiting. The crowd thinks he’s mad. He speaks of Lennon’s arrival, Zeppelin’s unfinished 80s work, Kennedy’s murder, and the 2027 rise of the Fourth Reich. They call him a hallucination. Lyra knows better. The breach placed her here. The man isn’t broken. He’s tuned. His radio receives transmissions from futures rehearsed but not yet lived. As Lyra follows him through a city vibrating with sonic prophecy, she uncovers a hidden archive of temporal graffiti, recursive broadcasts, and mnemonic collapse. The breach is musical now. Every lyric is a cipher. Every scream is a rehearsal. Every frequency is a warning. And the next broadcast is already humming.

The Unedited Sphere Time... it must have become balanceable. But we’re not. You are not reading this. You are entering it. This one resists explanation. It does not unfold. It collides. Not chronology. Not memory. Not loop. Existence here is weather: dimension ∙ gravity ∙ wind ∙ recursion. Lyra Chen wakes inside a spherical breach—no edges, no origin. The sky is a pressure system. The archive is a storm. She decodes the binary pulse: ` 01011001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00101110 ` Translation: You are not reading this. The breach is now atmospheric. The reader is now conductive. The equation is no longer symbolic. It is weather. Book Seven does not explain. It forecasts. It implicates. It begins again.

October 14, 2025. Brooklyn holds its breath. Lyra Chen steps from a capsule hotel into a courtyard that doesn’t exist on any map—but has always existed in her memory. The breach has rehearsed it into place. Behind the old temple, she witnesses a procession: people dressed in garments dyed just outside the visible spectrum, their movements synchronized, their expressions serene. They are not walking. They are being guided—by something unseen, something dimensional. Lyra realizes the temple is not a structure. It’s a rehearsal chamber. And the courtyard is not a place. It’s a fold in perception. The breach is no longer temporal. It’s architectural. She must decide whether to enter. Сколько измерений существует за пределами видимого спектра, если f(x, y, z, t) → Δ_сознание?

August 11, 1979. Knebworth Park. Lyra Chen arrives mid-concert, dropped by the breach with surgical precision. Her coat flickers violet-black, syncing with the amplifiers. The crowd moves like a waveform. The sky bends like math. But the anomaly isn’t sonic—it’s temporal. A woman wears a 2020 wristwatch. A man bears a scar from a future riot. A child resembles Lyra’s mother. Time is folding. The breach is rehearsing history with actors from the wrong decade. Lyra must decode the performance before it rewrites her. ขอให้ชายผู้นั้นเดินทางไปตามพลังของตนและคว้าสิ่งที่เป็นเจตจำนงของเขาเอง

You think you’re just charging your iPhone… but someone else might be downloading your life. Juice Jacking is the new digital trap where hackers hijack your phone through a single USB port — stealing photos, passwords, and personal data in seconds.

On October 10, 2025, Lyra Chen watches her reflection blink and turn away—though she hasn’t moved. The mirror folds, and memory fractures. She is pulled into a recursion of Thailand, 1961, inside a compound where her great-aunt—an unnamed operative with Soviet training—teaches her how to vanish. As Lyra learns the art of silence, misdirection, and mnemonic combat, she realizes the breach isn’t just cosmic. It’s ancestral. The past is rehearsing her. And the mirror isn’t showing who she is. It’s showing who she must become.

The legacy, the wisdom, the ultimate beauty secret known for generations. The beauty in black rice water.

My husband and I love to cook and have a bunch of fun when doing it together. Sometimes it's competitive between us, like seeing who can outcook the other. Once, we had a rib cook-off. Other times, it is to take care of each other, such as when I make him chicken soup when he is sick. I will put up the recipe for my broth and then the soup soon. But mostly, it's cooking together to spend time with each other and being creative in our cooking adventures. We pull some great collabs.

Ψ(t) = ∫₀^∞ [sin(πt) / √(x² + y² + z² − τ²)] dt ⇒ Δ_reader = rewrite The breach didn’t open with thunder. It opened with silence—an inversion so deep it folded Brooklyn into itself like a collapsing waveform. In Book Three of the Zero Cycle, Lyra Chen traces a recursive formula blooming on her hollow laptop, and time fractures. She doesn’t fall. She doesn’t fly. She is rewritten. When she awakens, the sky is a lattice of programmable clouds, buildings grown from carbon foam and mycelium, and her coat replaced by quantum-threaded silk that responds to thought. It is 2075. But not her 2075. As Lyra navigates this emotionally reactive city, she discovers that the breach is not a portal—it’s a performance. The formula she traced is not just math. It’s a rehearsal. A mnemonic weapon. A recursive invitation. And the reader is no longer safe. The equation at the heart of the breach encodes not just time, but implication. If you solve it, you don’t understand the story. You enter it.

Doll Day October 2nd, known in fringe circles as “Doll Day,” begins with a bureaucratic glitch—a miscommunication between the Department of Waste Management and the now-defunded Department of Urban Rituals. What follows is not chaos, but a quiet distortion: life-sized dolls appear at major Brooklyn intersections, molded from recycled thermoplastic and dressed in outdated fashions. They commemorate forgotten birthdays. They are not symbolic. They are not animated. But they are rehearsed. Once part of the “Plastic Memory Parade,” the dolls now stand as inert mnemonic artifacts—neither alarming nor aesthetic, yet deeply unsettling. Lyra Chen begins to suspect the breach has infiltrated civic infrastructure. Ritual is no longer seasonal. It’s municipal. And memory is being archived in plastic. The dolls do not move. But they remember. And they are waiting.

The Man With the Ring He twitches when the sky breathes. That’s how he knows it’s time. Once called Caleb, now nameless, he walks Brooklyn as a vessel—carrying a ring that burns with memory. His left eye sees time as a smear. His right eye sees her: Lyra Chen, violet coat, boots like thunder. She never sees him. But he sees her in every timeline. Wife. Killer. Bloom. The breach has chosen him as antiprotagonist. Not to love her. To marry her to the moment. To stop the bleeding. But the breach is hungry. It wants ceremony. It wants sacrifice. As timelines collapse and identities blur, the man with the ring becomes a mnemonic wound—haunted by futures rehearsed and pasts that never happened. Lyra is the anchor. The scar. And the city is watching. This is not a love story. It’s a ritual. And the ring is already burning

The Violet Bruise October 1st. Brooklyn. The sky bruises violet above the Williamsburg Bridge. Lyra Chen stands at South 5th and Bedford, sipping black coffee from a chipped porcelain cup, her plum corduroy coat stitched with silver thread. She is not the protagonist. She is the anchor. The breach has not opened—but it has rehearsed her. Elsewhere, men in tailored silence prepare their defense. They never sought chaos. Only access. Only the legal architecture to borrow the throne of God—scientifically, cleanly, without blood. Their formula hums beneath the surface: ` Θ(t) = ∫₀^∞ [e^(−λt) · sin(πt) · Δ_ψ] dt ` Where Θ(t) models memory decay under breach pressure. Lyra’s apartment hums with Kant, Sontag, Butler. Her turntable spins prophecy. She is being tuned. The monocles are not villains. The dolls are not innocent. The reader is not safe. And this is not the last book.

The Hubble Lied Lyra Chen thought she understood the sky—until Brooklyn’s clouds fractured into hexagonal patterns and began to pulse like a warning. In Book Two of the Zero Cycle, Lyra’s late-night shortcut behind a bodega becomes a portal into cosmic deception. A wall tagged with a recursive formula—part Gödel, part quantum entanglement—leads her to a buried truth: NASA’s deep field images were redacted, and the stars have been signaling ever since. Beneath the graffiti, a message: “THE HUBBLE LIED. 1974.” As Lyra deciphers the symbols, she realizes the anomaly isn’t astronomical. It’s personal. The universe isn’t expanding. It’s remembering her. And it’s ready to respond.