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tony plays otome games and he gets so frustrated that he only has a few options that he deadass spends a friday afternoon making codes for his own otome game that the player can be fully customizable and that the ai system adapts to how you answer and that endings are randomly generated based on you the player’s 100% actions and tony gets questioned about it like any walkthroughs and he’s just like “there are none you ARE the walkthrough” and people foam (at the mouth)

#he made it bc he didn't want the endings to be predictable #so like he really doesn't know all the endigns he know s they'll be good or bad #and they won't ever get graphic bc it's rated E for Everyone #but he genuinely has no clue #he knows you'll get there tho !#and also he loves freedom #of expression #in otome games #tony: why can't i say FUCK YOU this guy is a DOUCHE #headcanon.

Here we are, human:

We are isolated, imprisoned, in our skulls.

We build tunnels and bridges and airplanes out of music and words and art.

There is joy in this construction.

But it is not their purpose.

All of these require a soft place to land.

A crew to welcome us home.

Elsewise we hit impenetrable rock, drown in the sea, crash land.

Alone, we perish.

We don’t expect to be welcome everywhere, or even many places.

Sometimes our construction is faulty. Inelegant. Incomplete. Lacking. Doesn’t meet code requirements.

Sometimes our maps are faulty. We stumble in the dark; our notes are sirens; our phrases are flashlights, our pictures are beacons.

We keep trying.

We meet rock and sea and air.

We despair.

We keep trying.

We emerge victorious, we cross the infinite, we land softly.

Our crew welcomes us home.

And still we are alone.

Our tunnels and bridges and airplanes are temporary; they crumble.

Our music and words and art cannot carry the fullness of ourselves.

We cannot negate the isolation of the self.

We cannot share our homes.

Here we are, human:

Still, we keep building.

Still, we welcome you home.

#poetry #writing #art #my writing #this is always the point of art #of expression #this is the core of what drives me to write #the core of my understanding of art #this is why my blog title is #all my stumbling phrases #this is what i have learned from my most cherished pieces of art #from as i lay dying #from ender's game #from all this and heaven too #this is what shapes everything about *me*#i write for myself yes that's true #writing for myself means i write to be understood #to understand myself #and i share it in the hope that others can understand me #the purpose of art is to connect and engage #it is so much more than just for fun #it is a lonely soul seeking another lonely soul and finding kinship #it is trying to express emotions that well within you #using clumsy words #playing chords #painting #none of these are ever enough #but all we can do is get as close as we can #and say #yes

#CAUSE THIS IS AMERICA TAY #well not really this is france but #WE ARE AMERICAN #FREEDOM #OF EXPRESSION #IN FUCKING TAGS

Here we are, human:

We are isolated, imprisoned, in our skulls.

We build tunnels and bridges and airplanes out of music and words and art.

There is joy in this construction.

But it is not their purpose.

All of these require a soft place to land.

A crew to welcome us home.

Elsewise we hit impenetrable rock, drown in the sea, crash land.

Alone, we perish.

We don’t expect to be welcome everywhere, or even many places.

Sometimes our construction is faulty. Inelegant. Incomplete. Lacking. Doesn’t meet code requirements.

Sometimes our maps are faulty. We stumble in the dark; our notes are sirens; our phrases are flashlights, our pictures are beacons.

We keep trying.

We meet rock and sea and air.

We despair.

We keep trying.

We emerge victorious, we cross the infinite, we land softly.

Our crew welcomes us home.

And still we are alone.

Our tunnels and bridges and airplanes are temporary; they crumble.

Our music and words and art cannot carry the fullness of ourselves.

We cannot negate the isolation of the self.

We cannot share our homes.

Here we are, human:

Still, we keep building.

Still, we welcome you home.

#of expression

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#of expression