Is it popular to make hum characters? Well, that toy Chica!
Three Goblin Art
Xuebing Du
Jules of Nature
Peter Solarz
trying on a metaphor
Monterey Bay Aquarium
noise dept.
$LAYYYTER
🪼
Stranger Things
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Misplaced Lens Cap
cherry valley forever
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

@theartofmadeline
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

roma★
No title available
One Nice Bug Per Day
seen from Brazil

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Canada

seen from Japan

seen from Romania

seen from United States

seen from India
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil

seen from Germany

seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from United States
@moon-31s
Is it popular to make hum characters? Well, that toy Chica!
Jake had always been strange. Unintelligible to his peers, a mystery to his family, a stranger to... everyone. He didn’t do foolish things, nor did he speak without thinking. And yet, a vast, soundless chasm separated him from society. He existed in a world that was too loud, too obvious, too… simple.
He had to grow up fast. His coming of age was not a rebellion, but a strategic retreat. His mother raised him alone, but he wanted for nothing. Education, a home, a quiet understanding—he had everything for a good, predictable life. For a future that could be calculated like a simple equation. His life before “that moment” was a perfectly constructed cage. Good grades, quiet evenings with his mother, a predictable tomorrow. He was a ghost in a house where the loudest event was the ticking of the clock. The future seemed to him like a long, clean corridor with a single door at the end. And he walked toward it without asking questions. He was the perfect son for a single woman—predictable as an algorithm. The future lay before him, smooth and dull, like an endless line of code without errors.
And then everything went off the rails. When exactly? He doesn’t remember. Maybe the very moment his fingers first answered a prompt in a dark chat? Or when, holding his breath, he typed “agree”? Now it didn’t matter anymore. He had been noticed. Not by the police, but by others—those who valued the elegance of thought over brute force. They offered him not a job, but something more. His gift—a sharp, cold, intuitive mind, a sense for the weak points in the world’s digital armor—had been recognized. That alone was enough. He was finally valued for what he was worth. Perhaps that was the root of all his troubles: his ability to see what was hidden had turned into a curse. Maybe that’s why things unfolded the way they did?
He was a ghost in the backstreets of the city, a shadow slipping through other people’s lives and secrets. His world had narrowed to the blind spots between surveillance cameras, to the gaps in patrol routes, to the faint clicks in the silence, feeling the chill of being watched in every reflection on the screen. He became a master of quiet intrusion, a thief who left behind only a lingering sense of bewilderment and perfect order at the scene of the “crime.” His quarry wasn’t money (though it flowed like a river), but the fact itself: “I was here, and you never knew.”
Jake knew how to shatter the illusion of everything around him. As if he could break the fourth wall with just a touch of his finger. And yet… Was it worth everything that had happened? He could bypass any security, crack any safe, read any locked diary as easily as an open book. But in the silence of his sterile apartment, where even the air felt purified and every object rested in its place with geometric precision, a strange feeling would catch him. The price he hadn’t even had time to grasp while drunk on his own omnipotence.
And now, standing at the peak of this lonely pyramid of other people’s secrets and money, he asked himself: what exactly had he stolen? Jewelry, documents, other people’s secrets? Or had he stolen from himself something far more valuable, something that could never be restored with a simple turn of a lockpick? Freedom? A quiet life?…
If they had an end... His end, then Jake would want it to look exactly like this. Not loud, not dramatic, but inevitable, like the last breath. Beautiful. Effortlessly. Calmly.
The meteor shower they went to with May was not just beautiful — it was deafening. The universe scattered before them like crimson dust, and every moment was simultaneously eternity and an instant. The dazzling light of falling stars reached them, burning with the cold of the heights, while they themselves lay in the almost tangible darkness of the clearing. The grass under their backs was cool and prickly, the earth — solid and reliable. The last point of support.
There was fear. Jake gazed into the sky, uncomprehending, trying to find answers to his questions.
There was sadness. Not sharp, but old, familiar. It had lived in him for a long time, maybe always.
And there was beauty. The heavens were blazing. It was so beautiful it was painful. Beautiful to tears, to a constricted lump in the throat.
Jake turned to May. And froze. May wasn't looking at the sky. He was looking at him. His gaze was not observation, but absorption. Everything — and this crazy, generous meteor shower, and the dark forest, and the whole world — narrowed for May to a narrow strip of space between their faces. There was no admiration for the universe in his eyes. In them was a quiet, unconditional reverence. Jake was not an object, but a whole universe that one wanted to look at, forgetting everything, even while being at the very epicenter of a miracle.
And Jake understood. Understood without a single word. This understanding hit the solar plexus — not with pain, but with a crushing, all-crushing wave of tenderness and shame. His breath caught, eyes instantly filled with moisture. The lump in his throat became so huge that it seemed it would crush him right now. Maybe he was unworthy of all this?
And May, as if hearing this soundless question, only slightly moved the corners of his lips. It was not a smile. It was a seal. Acceptance. A quiet answer to the question that Jake never dared to ask aloud.
My favorite art at the moment
Angel Fall
Lack of originality.
The appearance of Lord Beelzebub
Stars✨
My favorite
Anxiety about the past
A little strange
Complexity
Crowley!!
This is my very old art, so I think it's not very successful :(
I thought it wouldn't be bad to have a blog here.
Art 'The Fall of Beelzebub'