#draft.

[blacktie-whitesuit]

Something i made. + variants.

Yes that's me.

-Dark.

[ we are collectively 𝚊nti-generative ai. ]

[ Do not repost, edit, or feed to generative ai. ]

Plain text provided for those who find the small text hard to read.

[ we are collectively anti-generative ai. ]

[ Do not repost, edit, or feed to generative ai. ]

[perequiste]

freight-train whistles

cool breezes

a freezing chill in the forests

dead branches

the proximity to floating so the body (...)

[eexplode]

             HE CAN'T USE HIS QUIRK.  he tries with all of his might,  all of the power he could have in this cruel world,  and nothing. his sweat doesn't try to form an explosion,   not even a spark. maybe he doesn't have enough sweat?  yeah,   yeah,  that's it! he can't have lost his quirk. so,  in a panic to try to fix this,  he runs. he runs like it's the only thing he can save himself,  hell,   to save the whole world. after a moment of making himself sweat even more he tries again,  with hope. hope in his eyes like nobody has ever seen before from such an aggressive person like him.

              BUT,  ALAS,  IT DOESN'T WORK.  he feels like screaming. he wants to scream so loud that his vocal cords give out,  so loud that he can't even breathe. there must be a way to fix this,  surely an explanation for this! there is no way the next number 1. hero lost his quirk! he can't be a hero without his quirk! maybe it's a nightmare,  maybe he just needs to wake up.  a deep breathe to try to gain control of his head-space.

             HE SMASHES HIS HEAD INTO THE WALL,  BUT HE DOESN'T WAKE UP.  so he smashes it again. and again. and again. and again. he smashes it until he can see the color red,   the devil's color.  he would touch his forehead to confirm,  yes,  he was actually bleeding. it wasn't just an illusion of his own crazed mind. so why hasn't he woke up yet? this is a nightmare,  right? it's not real,  is it? it physically can't be real... oh god... oh god.

             ❛     AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!    ❜    he screamed as loud as he could,  holding his head in his hands. he wasn't screaming from the physical pain of hitting his head against the wall over and over and over,  its the mental pain of realizing he's worthless. he can't do anything to help the world now,  he can't do anything to help anybody! he can't even help himself! how pathetic! tears flow down his face like an angry storm on tuesday,  oh god he can't take this. his heart feels like it's burning and exploding at the same time,  everything is so loud even when the screaming had stopped. he wanted to scream even more,  but he couldn't physically scream anymore.  

[playingelsewhere]

i think i used to get bogged down in “do I forgive this person” “do i even out the scales” “should I stand my ground” but really the question I should be asking is “what would be better for me” bc really. ahat would be better for me in the long term. what would stay true to my self respect and boundaries and values? what would provide the best outcome? What would make the most of my time? sometimes that’s forgiveness and sometimes its not and i dont think either route is necessarily morally superior to the other so long as it minimizes harm and is fair while also prioritizing my happiness

[risski25]

why is existence so hard to teach. i thought i could make sense of each part that makes me human but what ive found is incomprehensible

[antediluvianapocalypse]

Baby I could be your greasy amd haunted gf

[archivedmemories1108]

The City of Lost stretched out before him like a restless beast, its veins glowing with the pulse of neon and fire. Nastka leaned back in the shadows of the car, his figure silhouetted against the dim interior light. A cigar burned between his fingers, its smoke curling languidly into the air, an ephemeral crown dissolving into the night.

The streets outside bled filth and beauty in equal measure. The glow of distant signs smeared across the rain-slick pavement, painting the city in hues of desire and despair. Voices carried in waves—shouts of vendors hawking their wares, the low murmur of deals whispered in dark alleys, and the occasional eruption of drunken laughter. He inhaled deeply, letting the dirty air fill his lungs, savoring the weight of the city’s grit like an old lover’s kiss.

The scent of his cigar mingled with the lingering traces of cologne on his skin—amber and oud, sharp and warm, a fragrance that demanded attention without ever pleading for it. In his bags were silks and leathers, things too fine for the hands that would unpack them. But there were simpler treasures, too, wrapped with care by a mother whose love was as quiet as it was unyielding.

At her kitchen table earlier, he had felt small again, the hum of her scolding voice a melody he couldn’t escape. “You’ve got your father’s eyes,” she had said, placing a jar of pickled mushrooms into his hands. “But I hope not his soul.”

Her words had stuck, though he buried them beneath layers of charm and deflection. His father was gone now, swallowed by death’s merciless maw, and the throne had been left to him. The king of nothing, ruling over shadows, he thought. Yet, he knew better. The City of Lost had never been nothing. It was alive, feral, and it was his.

He turned his head to the window, watching the lights blur into streaks as the car moved through the labyrinth of streets. The voices outside were a symphony of desperation, their discordant notes weaving into a song only the city could compose. He tapped ash from his cigar, his lips curling into a faint smile as he watched a man on the corner argue with a woman, their anger sharp enough to cut the night.

“Let them scream,” Nastka murmured to himself, his voice low, like a prayer meant for no god. “This is how kingdoms live. In their breaking, in their fire.”

The car slowed as it approached his apartment, the quiet hum of the engine fading into the stillness of the street. He stepped out, the weight of the city’s eyes pressing against him. Inside the building, the air grew heavier, as if the walls themselves whispered his name, both in reverence and in warning.

As he entered his apartment, the silence was thick enough to choke on. He set his bags down carefully, the mundane act feeling ceremonial. He unpacked the food first—the jars and loaves, the smoked meats wrapped tightly in paper. His mother’s hands had worked tirelessly, though she never said as much. The thought lingered in his mind as he reached for one of the bottles of cologne, twisting the cap off to let its scent drift into the room.

He paused, his fingers brushing the neck of the bottle. He thought of his father then, of the man whose shadow still lingered in every corner of this city. The man who had ruled with fists and fury, who had shaped the City of Lost into something violent and alive.

And now Nastka sat upon that throne, not by choice but by fate’s cruel hand. He could feel the knives already, their weight heavy in the air around him. Some would be dull and clumsy, others sharp and elegant, wielded by hands he had once trusted. But that was the way of kings.

He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the faint light. As he sipped, he let the taste of it settle, warm and bitter. The city hummed outside, alive in its ruin, waiting for its king to stumble.

“Let them try,” he whispered to the room, to the walls, to the ghosts that lurked just out of sight. He lit another cigar, watching the smoke rise into the dim light. The City of Lost was his now, and though the crown was heavy, he had no intention of letting it slip.