Verily, the creatures of undefined appearance crawl across the ceiling casting no shadow, but black ooze that drips down onto my tongue as my mouth opens in shock. It tastes like castor oil, peanuts, and otherness.

Ewww gross!

(All you people who are viewing but not posting are ruining us! XD)

LLLOOOOLLLL

this thread gives me a new meaning to life,




















why not try to bend reality.

Today, the mists surround me again. Today it is lavender steel, with a hint of darker purple sometimes. I think I see it out of the corner of my eyes, but when I turn, it's gone. I wonder if it's going in my ears to my brain, but I think that's silly. I think the reason it's in there is so it can help me fly and lift up. It might feel better if I got my ears re pierced so there'd be another handle. I used to wear earrings, but they hung too heavy, or the reflection and sparkle of them blinded me. I feel my feet touch the ground. The mist still shrouds my vision, but it's light out. The light doesn't smell like anything, not like the mist. I feel the grass beneath my feet. It feels...funny. Somewhere along the horizon, a butterfly flaps. It's a yellow swallowtail, my favorite. It turns into a dragon before my eyes, with scales the color of the sunset. It flies over my head, something falling near me with a thud. The mist surrounds me, moves with me as I pick it up. My fingers glide across the smooth leather and embellishments. One side feels like linen cloth, and I decide it feels purple. As my eyes adjust, I feel that it is a book with two different sides. One of the fabric, one of the leather. The pages are painted on the outside, a pattern of colors. One purple and one blue. Together they somehow make a color I cannot quite explain or even comprehend. I open it, holding it horizontally instead of the way it was meant to be held. The words jump off the page and align themselves for me. They taste a bit sweet, like grape cotton candy. I turn the page, but the flavor changes. Perhaps it belongs to the other cover of the book. I think this set of words tastes like root beer. Only too late do I notice the plant of nothingness under my feet, swallowing me from the ground up. I realize that my legs are completely relaxed, from the toxins. The mouth of the plant around them supports me still. Before I am devoured up completely, I drop the book. I think it thuds to the ground, but I'm not quite sure. The lavender and steel mist turns to more of a lilac, and it avoids the oozing darkness that swallows me up. When it covers my hands, I feel around. It is thick and viscous like warm tar, but it moves beneath my fingers. Is it talking? I think so. As I ponder this, the mist leaves me and I am swallowed whole.

Oh well. I'm sure the next time I try, it will be better. My last thoughts are if I can still taste the words.

I am swallowed. Perhaps digested. With an uncomfortable feeling, like jelly squeezed out of a tube of saran wrap, I am somewhere again. It is dark. I cannot see my self. Oh well. Patience. I'll get my turn eventually.

Well then ok ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... Dinosaurs...?

THEWORLDISGOINGTOENDNOWBECAUSEWEARESTILLLOSINGTHEGAMEANDNOWEVERYONEANDEVERYTHINGWILLDIEOHDESPAIR!!!!!!!!!










































































OR IN OTHER WORDS...


THE WORLD IS GOING TO END NOW BECAUSE WE ARE STILL LOSING THE GAME AND NOW EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING WILL DIE OH DESPAIR!!!!!!!!!

I'm trying to help

The world is made of cigarettes and smoke. One knee bent, somebody props themselves up against the outside of a twenty four hour convenience store. The haze surrounds them. They go home and drink some tea. Perhaps it wasn't a cigarette they were smoking. Perhaps it wasn't anything they were smoking. Perhaps the store didn't really exist, but of course we know no matter how much we wish things wouldn't exist, they still do. It's rather rude of them actually. This time, I have no control over the world. I come to live in the form of...something. I think I feel my limbs, but I doubt I'm truly corporeal. I like to hang out near the smoke. It warms my spectral limbs. And sometimes, I think I can get a little taste. Of a d d i c t i o n. Of sorrow. Of the green tea, unsweetened with any honey or sugar. Tea... I can taste it. I am found in the steam rising above a hot cup. They never add tea, the people I follow. Perhaps, I think, it is because you can't sweeten the world, so there is no point in sweetening the tea. Sometimes I think they cannot afford the sugar, but I see how others talk with honeyed words and sugared sentiments. But I don't want none of their sugar. I just want them to go away...no offense to them. I try and reach out and touch the person, to ask, to question, even to c o m f o r t but they blow me away, and I am lost in the breeze, attaching myself to another source of warmth. I'll try harder next time.

This world is made of herbs and soft cloth and a rocking chair. My vessel this time is intended to help sleep, rather than allow a bitter person to contemplate the wrongs they have been dealt over a bitterer cup of tea. No, this time it is sweet and comforting, reaching out to caress the drinker. I think I see a face. It is old and haggard, far beyond it's years. Just a little bit of something, she says, something to help with a bit of sleep. They keep me up with their cries, she elaborates and gestures towards the cribs on the side of the room. They haven't given me a bit of sleep in years, she says. I don't think she's talking to me, but I don't know who she's talking to. What happened to them? I ask. She doesn't hear me, but I think she can feel my ghostly fingers. They grew, she says wistfully. They grew up and l e f t me. By her side, the droplets of water coming from the smoke I cling to attempt to cover the dial of an old rotary phone. We wait, and wait, and she drinks, and drinks. I stay with her until she falls asleep, embracing her with a cloak of tea and hoping I don't make her cold. Soon the tea grows cold and the steam evaporates completely. I am blown away. Maybe next time, it'll be better.

This time I am above a mug of hot cocoa. I see the joy in a child's eyes, and red cheeks and nose at a hot drink after playing in the cold snow where I belong. It's too hot, yet she sips at it, giving me an opportunity to reach out and kiss that nose of hers. It is warm and it feels like skin. Before she finishes, the familiar blackness comes around the back of my head and rests outside of the corner of my eyes. Slowly it moves in, waiting for me to step into it. My lack of courage does not allow me, and the darkness grows tired. With a growl that sounds like a thousand creaky doors and a thousand engines turning over, I fall. The darkness catches me. I think. I feel my head turning into mush as I prepare for Next Time. I did not have very much fun this time, but the darkness blankets me and I forget all of that surrounded by the smooth, quiet, comforting darkness, which is very different from his cousin, the Darkness. That darkness is too dark, not softened black like this one. It isn't quiet, but too quiet until you question everything you hear, even your own breathing. But I get ahead of myself.

Next Time, I'm sure, I'll try harder. It'll be better, you'll see.

who do i have to ping