L. Keane
L. is 28 years old.
She is the Turntable Artist of abstraction of insane.
L. is also known as "Hecate".
L. is located in London at Surfside Shack.
L. likes to go for a walk during off hours and is trying to improve skill in order to get ahead professionally.
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Rebellious |
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Normal |
| Game: Popmundo |
| Points: 1705 |
| Days Active: 1810 days |
Latest Blog Post
I'm getting older too
It was past midnight when Luciana stepped outside. The night was neither silent nor loud. Snow was beginning to fall, the flakes catching on her lashes before vanishing, as though even winter knew not to linger too close. The air wasn't as bitter as it should have been. Or perhaps it was simply that she burned hotter than the night around her.
She pulled her coat tighter, though it was more reflex than necessity. A cigarette dangled between her fingers, trembling faintly. The flame flared briefly, then the ember burned low, glowing against the dark. She pulled in smoke, sharp and familiar, letting it claw at her lungs before she surrendered it to the night.
Her phone vibrated somewhere deep in her purse. Sisters. Friends. Well-wishers. Congratulations stitched in digital confetti. She didn't bother to look. Tonight wasn't theirs.
She was already half-drunk, a fine-tuned balance between clarity and collapse, walking with the loose-limbed poise. In her pocket, something small and bright pressed against her palm: a few pills, her chosen gift to herself. They were not escape, not entirely. More like a blade: to sharpen the blurred edges of reality until they glittered.
She slipped one between her fingers, weighing it as though it were a coin to be flipped for fate. Heads: she gave herself over to the city. Tails: the city surrendered to her. Either way, she would win. With a swift, practiced motion, she pressed it to her tongue, swallowing dry. No hesitation.
This was no cry for rescue, no confession of loneliness. This was her ritual.
She tipped her head back and exhaled, sending the smoke swirling skyward like a charm cast on the stars, as if they might rearrange themselves just for her. She felt herself smile, faint and crooked, the kind of smile meant for no one.
"Happy birthday, Luciana," she whispered into the night.
Posted 10/3/2025, 6:00 AM
All characters in Popmundo are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental.
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