#anonhymns

[saint-hymn]

🪙🪙 your two cents, my good sir!

clunk clunk clunk, thunk:

[vulpesintuos]

9, 12, 21? (for the ask game)

thanks for the ask, chap!

9. What are your file name conventions

take a hot guess

12. Easiest part of body to draw

the skull! super satisfying to draw and i've been drawing them so long they're basically muscle memory. and i simplify the hands into blocky shapes a lot—they're more funner than easier to draw

21. Art styles nothing like your own but you like anyways

oh geez thats a hard one. shoutout to @doekimakura and Bread (WHAT is your tumblr) for their super clean, super dynamic comic artist styles that're a far cry from what I make but I deeply adore anyways

[saint-hymn]

hello. thoughts won't leave me alone this day and it's probably due to how cold it is outside. i got a bit curious, so, what do you think about the cold in relation to c!wilbur?

sincerely, 🐁

he is intimate to it, like the relation the cold has to an abandoned house? that's not quite right, i'll come back to that someday

it's a bit like the dread nipping at his heels. have you ever seen him with less than two to three layers of cloth? He's a cold man, I'd imagine his hands are the type that's always clammy and that's what the gloves are for. The uniform staved it off fine at first, the coat's a thick wool and the undershirt's a nice layer of cotton. The cloak-coat-shirt-beanie combo for Pogtopia was fine for the cave's muggy chill. Uncomfortable as hell, i'd imagine, but whatever keeps the cold away. Whatever keeps the dread from eating him alive.

Dying was cold as hell, so to speak.

(Did you know that Dante Alighieri says the layer of hell reserved for treachery is the coldest? Traitors to friends, families, and countries are all trapped in ice.)

Dying was falling into the ocean and sinking from the weight of the sword on his chest. Losing blood made him even colder. Dying was freezing to death despite cPhil, a bastion of warmth—trembling, teeth grit, like he is the one that's cold—holding him closer than he'd ever been held before. Dying is slowly losing the dear warmth wrapped around him. Dying is giving into the cold because it was his joy in unrelenting pain.

The subway isn't exactly cold—it's cold like the idea of being trapped in a fridge in a dream. You acknowledge the low temperature, but you don't feel it on your skin. You acknowledge the dread, the fear, the trembling air as the train rushes in for its next flood of colder shades, but you're out of it enough that all you can focus on is the bite of guitar strings on your skin or how smooth the laminated deck of cards is in your hands. You acknowledge it in every tomorrow creeping in its petty pace.

His revival was the first time that he was warm again. Shirt-sweater-coat, you'd think he's scared of the cold from the ten miles of cloth he's hiding under.

The sunrise was warm. The way everyone treats him thereafter?

[saint-hymn]

hymn dearest hymn. what say you to a fic that rewrites the whole “revivebur making a deal with dreamxd” thing the way i thought it was gonna go before that stream happened. ft cwilbur experiencing the totality of the universe and also the end poem and basically having a transcendentalist mindfuck acid trip that was mostly just a test from dreamxd to see if his love or lack of faith was stronger

WHERE

[saint-hymn]

Apologies for missteps, faux pas, and posturing. Caught in a thought. Thought it'd be fun to play opening band.

A question: Where, in the feast of sinew that becomes one consumed by other, does soul leave body? Is it the throat, the stomach, or the intestines? Is it topsoil, regolith, or only at bedrock? This is about place, but a fallen Inland Empire, finding themselves misremembered.

Perfect specimens are flawed in their lack of flaw. Martyrdom is funny like that, right? There's something empty, hollow, wrong, about looking at the body politic from afar. A scarecrow, covered in swooning birds. If the ghost is perfect grief, can one ever do better?

Realistically, your form relinquishes its soul the moment saprotrophes dub you theirs and return you to the topsoil.

But the fallen Inland Empire, I'd say, didn't had the mercy of such a gentle end? It died kicking and screaming. It died before it was supposed to. It died before anyone realized the heart had stopped.

(Or, honestly, it was just the bearer screaming to the audience's empty seats that it had stopped. For everyone else watching, it's perfectly fresh and beating.)

(Did you know that heart transplants have an up to 40% chance of being rejected by its new host?)

The moment it was forced to change the flesh had rotted while the soul wept. Do you not hear the cries ringing through ravine walls?

The throat is merely deliverance post-mastication where in the mouth you were mechanically beset by the teeth but nonetheless still whole. Struggles for revolution are always bloody, leaves none unscathed.

In the stomach you dissolve—unbecomingly un-become by secretions and the grasp of smooth muscles, but still holding on as an unrecognizable liquid mass. It's, how they say, gross as hell and pitiful to see.

With this premise then I'd say it would be in bedrock, where you cannot dig a hole deeper for yourself or what-you-have-dragged-with-you and the earth finally deals with your loud nonsense by dragging you to where you deserve to be. The soul surrenders and relinquishes the undone-flesh only within the intestines where proper dismantlement into nutrients from chyme begin. It has held on, desperately, but this is where it's wrenched away. So long!

There's always something empty, hollow, and wrong about the Ex-President as a concept and a person. It extends to everything he has put between his teeth and internalized into the back of his ribs. I'd say, in tune with the scarecrow with swaying birds, he is quite like seeing the fruiting body of the Narrative slowly break through the floorboards. You might mistake the mycelia for a nervous system, the macrofungi for a sovereign head. Or is it the other way around?

[saint-hymn]

Its pride month. You know what that means

[saint-hymn]

The way you post about cWilbur and cTNT duo intrigue me greatly as they are remarkably similar to how I view them, and therefore I can’t tell if I want to be your friend or study you to hopefully gain some insight on how I myself am perceived.

you're welcome to pick my brain the operating theatre is open 24/7

[saint-hymn]

I had no idea Fallout New Vegas had such an intriguing plot. Or maybe I’m just now interested because it has cTNT, who knows. If you were to ever write or draw more for it I would absolutely be interested! Love complex character dynamics and world-building, even if I don’t know the game.

Q and Wil in that dynamic kind of remind me of that quote about types of devotion, though I’m not 100% sure why.

‘He confesses how long he’s looked for a place of worship, so you put him on his knees. He goes down like he just can’t help himself, and you wonder if angels fall this sweetly. It is an agony of the honeyed kind, the kind that makes guilt look soft.’ Or something like that, might be mixing a writing or three. Point is- gay.

- studying anon

it's the best in the series (I am not biased *at all* obviously) especially with its little DLCs that teach you little things such as how the hardest part of it all is to let go, let go, let go, and begin again (Dead Money), killing people (Old World Blues), we can't expect god do all the work (Honest Hearts), and killing people with rocket launchers (Lonesome Road)

I'd like you to know that I fell to my knees and groveled at the quote; YES, AGONY OF THE HONEYED KIND; it's like- hold on, I don't have much words to offer you this will have to suffice

it's like that; bond from a conscious choice, precarious possession, the courier-employer relationship being a leash-construct for both parties, circling. fnv!Will's loudest motivation for working with fnv!Q is the fact that he can simply kill q at any second, whenever he feels like it, given his free rein to enter and leave q's office as he pleases. The gem of the wasteland, kingdom of armed drones and excessive indulgences under his thumb if he just so chooses to pull the trigger.

q is on the same spot. here's something where almost haunts him: