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  "cid": "bafyreidfgkhi6onpeony6jqdnouitdh5y2ej54khwyut4b2kgwq7k43ibe",
  "value": {
    "text": "Gave myself a bit of a break, so have a treat from the art conservator au",
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          "alt": "Crowley slowly climbed the road to the studio in a delirious haze, nursing a triple espresso in one hand (for himself), a headache (an unfortunate effect of not sleeping), and a neatly packed box containing glazed cinnamon buns (for the angel and his hellhound – the smiling woman at the bakery was convinced Aziraphale would enjoy them) in the other hand. It was almost 8.30 am and Crowley was used to going to sleep at such an hour, but waking up? No, that was completely unheard of. Aziraphale was adamant on Crowley being there early so that he could “familiarise him with the studio” before the workday started – thus, he braved the side of the country road, feeling grumpy and personally offended by every high-pitched bird chirp and each sunray that pierced to his eyes despite his sunglasses. Nature, he thought bitterly. He had nothing against it – there was a time in his life when the very fascination with it was a driving force for his art. Whether he was annoyed with it right now because of the lack of sleep, or because of his personal problems would have to stay nicely covered up with a concrete lid and several heavy stones – at least for the time being. Crowley sipped his bitter, hot coffee as he climbed up the hill to the studio, feeling less cranky with each time the liquid burnt his mouth. ",
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        {
          "alt": "When he reached the gate of Aziraphale’s property, he saw the doors to the studio unlocked and slightly open (was he supposed to just let himself in?). Crowley stopped before the gate, however, and took a moment to collect himself. There was no one else around, so he curiously surveyed the studio’s grounds. The land Aziraphale owned wasn’t exceptionally vast, but looked quite comfortable. The large barn-turned-studio was taking much of the grounds, alongside with the small-ish, but comfortable looking, cottage. The fresh greenery was starting to bubble around, emerald grasses and sturdy daisies offering a reprieve to a winter-tired gaze. There were some flowerbeds arranged around the house, but it seemed like nobody paid much attention to them, various weeds freely invading the space. The hedge, Crowley noticed, was made out of forsythia bushes – a bold choice, considering they grew rampant if nobody took care of them. For now, however, they were sparkling with oodles of cheerful, yellow flowers. He could see a large wisteria tree climbing the cottage’s veranda. The garden looked unkempt and chaotic, surprisingly contrasting with the image of Aziraphale Crowley had drawn thus far. Was the angel actually messy? Did he… not have anyone to care for them? What the hell, he thought, noticing a lopsided grin that formed on his lips and a pleasant feeling settling inside his chest. Ugh…. Fuck. If he had a free hand, he’d smack himself on the lips. As it were, he couldn’t, so he grimaced instead and pushed the gate open. ",
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    "langs": [
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    "createdAt": "2025-05-12T15:32:46.939Z"
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}