The Bare Bones Collage
Poster Print, A2 Signed/stamped. Available to buy HERE.

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The Bare Bones Collage
Poster Print, A2 Signed/stamped. Available to buy HERE.
Totoro The first one i felt bad about. Poor Totoro.
The Bare Bones - a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon
At dVerse De is hosting the Quadrille (44 words sans title) with an invitation to write a poem which includes some form of the word bones. dVerse Poets – Quadrille – Writing Down The Bones Photo: found on tumblr.com The Bare BonesBones boned bonedown spinevertical youbanded togetherwith lovetender tendonsto the musclememories of uslying along thesoft line of yourjaw which I tracewith my…
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my brain, unprompted: heres a scene in that fic weve def been working on, totally, this whole time
me: ...
my brain: see its funny. we never do funny anymore, just dialogue and confrontations and sometimes heartbreaking smad
me: ... i want to sleeeeeeeeeep
my brain: but, funny scene :(
me: ... ... ... gd, wheres the bloody laptop?
my brain: :D its dead!
Dragon’s Rest, Part 1
So it started with this “New Castle Keep” dollhouse kit from Earth and Tree Miniatures of New Hampshire, based on an 1tth century Norman stone keep. The kit contains three walls and four floors, with the windows and stairway holes precut.
But I thought the stairways took up too much room, so we made plywood inserts to fill the holes, glued in and filled with spackle.
By this time I also realized there wasn’t enough room period in the tower for everything I wanted to do, so we also bought sheets of 3/4 inch plywood to build a four-story addition to match.
The fun really begins in Part 2.
Tweety
Spongebob Squarepants
Personal favourite after hours lying in bed being converted into a Bikini Bottom-ite. Find him and some of his other friends in the 1st book HERE
A dangerous voice.
That’s what he had. Which was distinct from a dangerous tone of voice or dangerous words that were voiced. No, he had a dangerous voice because it was incredibly pleasant. The kind of voice that made you want to do whatever it dictated, scramble after it, crawl on your hands and knees before it, for some tiny tiny scrap of praise spoken with those lilting tones and warm amusement. It made you want to curl up in a ball at the bottom of a river, and try to imagine that voice speaking the praise that, deep down, you knew you were unworthy of, but craved more than food, more than water, more than oxygen.
The kind of voice that crept deep inside you and, when it had gone, it left behind holes in places that you hadn’t even known existed in your body. It bleached the world in its wake in muted tones.