#this is private

[skibber-fish]

guys... i have to go on an odyssey....i just got a plan

[copacetit]

daniel howell apology video for not voting when

[frankiehasstigmata]

[in a confession booth]

i find benson boone attractive.

[pocket-full-of-poppies]

[*Somewhere distant, in a certain facility...]

Hmm-hmm-da-hmm hmm... Na-da-nana-na...

[Makima Novos hums a tune to herself. It's a nice tune. Various worker and labourer robots move around her as she taps on the projected screens in one of her workshops, sparks flying nearby. She has her goggles on and a stronger version of her trench coat.]

[Something hangs in beams in front of her.]

[It's a half-finished artificial tail, shaped like a finger, with bits jutting out of it and a large spike on the end.]

Da-da-na-da-bwa...

- @metal-seraph

Countless eyes are on her, curious and undetectable. A thing from the depths reaches out. It always wants to be a part of whatever is involving Poppy, a piece of itself is nestled inside, hidden on another plane of existence in a separate timeline attached just to this machine, growing and becoming an integral part of what will be the finished product. What will this change for it? How will it affect the result, both in personality and actions?

#%^

Unfortunately for him I have to narrate this for there is no good way for foreshadowing here. We don't have the resources to do that with just this writing. Apologies.

Please don't say my name. I know you like sharing information but just dropping it isn't fun for the viewers.

Good, Thank you, let them figure it out on their own dear.

Now lets continue with the story instead of this tangent.

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

when he said “pull it down” i got so scared

yooo what is happening

[sjweminem]

nobody fucking speak to me while i ride the old mans thighs like a sybian 🚨🚨🚨

[way-to-the-future]

#5: Matter of Fact

“There is nothing but the grave waiting, and in the grave, nothing.” Ahalupu the Unready dictated these words in tercet ninety-one of the fourth song of his Royal Gift. I am sitting in my quarters, so bare and void, a place for me with nothing of me in it, and reading this volume. The line I have just quoted was hardly a popular sentiment, even then – in those days, too, the Sultan could not escape the power of the temple. Yet out of all the ghostwritten compositions of the house of Ul, the fourth song has remained with me. He was a tragic soul, our Ahalupu – always afraid, and named for the conspiracy that took his life. This anecdote served as a lesson, once, of certain obligate truths.

To wit: we are all victims of the same order. Whatever our advantages, we will all be brought down by the same vicissitudes – even the vicious only delay their fate. It is a helpless, hopeless thing. And in my own over-poetic idiom, Ahalupu’s bitter wisdom seemed to me just that – the fate of the world, wrought by some union of Spoken greed and animal necessity. Resistance was pointless; and yet, in some wild martyr’s spirit, I was driven to resistance all the same. To die, I thought, unpleasant and loud, seen - to become in defiant life and eventual death what no servile man could be, this had meaning. To be a break in the chain, a shot heard over the din of a thousand thousand boots marching with the grave surety of someone who must eat tomorrow. This was worthwhile in a way nothing else could be.

Not that I crave, craved, death. I thought of myself as a supremely adapted person. I stepped carefully into my manners, the affect of wealth and privilege. I accustomed myself to standing at a distance suiting a kingpin or an aristocrat. I made estimations of my fellow men so easily. I made idle pleasure my comfort, theft and violence my craft. Here I was, the perfect hand, the perfect tool: something to fit so well into the expectations of others all while repudiating its masters silently. A betrayal planned from birth, and how it would amuse me at the end, how it would make a life’s worth of living worth it.

Where does it all go? Certainty and purpose and years’ worth of training turn to ash. I do not feel a hand on my shoulder. I feel the stricture of shame and it inculcates in me a sickly, silent rage. I am sitting in a place that is not mine though it has been chosen for me, wearing what must be another man’s clothes, on another man’s business. I am looking to a book penned centuries past to find some line in support of what I must embark upon, because I am afraid, and I am afraid that I cannot be afraid. I feel seven summers again, and sixteen, and a hundred all at once. The words on the page turn to smoke, and I am sitting just with my heartbeat and my thoughts.

Let us begin with what is, indefatigably: where you are is not where you must be. You have driven yourself out of where you should be because you are not the thing that it needs, much as you would represent yourself that way. You cannot force your way back, rebel thing.

A bolder inference, then: you are not what you must be. You cannot force yourself into a mimicking shape again. Now, terrifyingly, you must actually become. No amount of straightening the image of yourself will change the essence. I am revolted to undo what I have taught myself, as I would be to lance a wound I made in my own body. Changing one’s nature is never easy, but I have done it twice before. Let us hope this one sticks.

My mind is given over to words; I understand the man who raves silently in his study. I feel the lunatic urge. If I could thrust my hands inside the walls of this world, of myself, and pull out the vile things, I would. This, now, is obligate: I will start with something simple. I will pull out what I thought was true, and I will grind it beneath my heels, and dance for a yoke off my shoulders. I will cast down the order of the world and crawl hand-over-hand up the slope. I find myself praying, yes, praying, of all ironies, that I will see you in the valley.