* right, this is where we draw pictures, and don’t kill each other!
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

Origami Around

pixel skylines
Xuebing Du

if i look back, i am lost
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
RMH
KIROKAZE
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Three Goblin Art

oozey mess
trying on a metaphor
NASA
occasionally subtle

titsay
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
AnasAbdin

#extradirty

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@goldetrash
* right, this is where we draw pictures, and don’t kill each other!
STARLIGHT🌟!!!
Update tomorrow
Dear...~♡
You are born with the power of incredible stealth, able to hide from anyones gaze. After years of miraculously avoiding demise, you come to realize that you are invisible to death itself.
Geno my beloved🥹
He looks like magical girl don't you think
Geno Sans belongs to Crayon Queen
A group of strangers realize they are all side characters in someone else’s story—and want out.
hihi hihihi teehee twirls hair
I heard people like these guys....I am amongst those people
Reblog if you will never. Ever. Use AI in your writing.
For my beautiful server I'm forging right now... What if I started posting like a weird depressed goddes
Yes you visualize that a noose is mineself tail
Had a drawing session in whiteboard on @goldetrash 's discord!! :D we started drawing utmv stuff.... somehow we drew a fuck ton of cookie run shit, funniest call i had the honor to be part of in a while kqndnsjs
Also!! Small doodle i made based on the song "crazy fucking robot body" (which may or may not have inspired me to think of a design for a possible Fell!Zip variant)
. . . . . ☆ . . . . .
[Candle belongs to @/goldetrash
Zip belongs to me]
Patience is a key
og pic:
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.