[wormhole1998]

Just call me Salt, I'm 26, any pronouns 💭 Autistic, disaster, kidney disease warrior

No minors

I post a lot of kitschy things, art, jungle and drum n bass, The Terror (2018), and Welsh

Trystan Grav lives in my head rent free, you will see a lot of him here (help me)

Art: #draws

Stream Wormhole by Ed Rush and Optical

[fleshfriend]

2005

[silkysousaphone]

Just got some glass pebbles for stainglass making and they're so cute I just had to make them into stickers!

Free to use without credit, but please credit if you repost :3

Finished piece /Part one / Part two

[sixpenceee]

MARK POWELL’S HELLISH DIORAMAS 

As a horror artist, Powell’s pieces are some truly disturbing work. He describes them as “miniature environments where imaginary beings evolve, devolve, consume, excrete, multiply and decay” 

It certainly creeped me out. The detail is both gruesome and amazing. 

[fleshfriend]

2005

[babynailz]

[acquired-stardust]

LSD Dream Emulator Playstation 1998

[wormhole1998]

[litebrite2003]

[lonelysummerbreeze]

2012

[wormhole1998]

Love wins

[purplesaline]

Melon collies

[contemptible-scoundrel]

four noobs huddled around a campfire telling each other scary stories about the mad troller

[princedevitt]

[ferylcheryl]

I’ve finally finished Ouroboros, in which Collins, Goodsir, and a symbiotic slime symbolizing grief navigate love.

I - Heron

the word is, it is i am combing my reedy that-which-knows through what scant is known for the word i mean for him him whom i remember him whose face was gladness when we woke in our other life and i remember too what ghost means and other things what death meant before i died, it meant something else then and now in this soft new that-which knows i am waiting i am waiting for he from whom what-is-the-word flowered, or is it flowed both mean, do they not, to lovely grow?

II - Collins

Henry Collins wakes to silence in a narrow and dim hospital room. Silent sheeted machines clutter the head of the bed like hulking mourners and the wall at the foot of the bed is dominated by a two-way mirror. Before he can make sense of the scattered fragments in his head, a doctor enters the room.

“You’re awake,” he observes with a soft smile, his eyes crinkling. He’s a narrow-shouldered man with a gentle, tense air about him and a cap of unruly curls. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m… my head hurts a bit but otherwise I’m all right. What happened?”

“You were in an accident. On a dive.” He doesn’t say any more, though Collins expects it. After a pause he sticks his hand out and introduces himself as “your doctor”.

“Henry Collins,” Collins grunts back. “But I suppose you know that.”

“Oh, yes. We know so much about you!”

He doesn’t know how to process that so he sets it aside, shifting uncomfortably in his bed. His muscles are tight from disuse, a ticklishness deep in his calves. That’s when he realizes that what he thought was a headache is not localized to his head at all but rather a diffuse, nebulous kind of pain, and he can’t pinpoint what hurts. Without thinking he reaches for the small of his back, gasps, and yanks his hand away at the answering touch of a warm, rubbery bulge there.

“Ah,” the doctor says. “That would be the, ah, ouroboros. It’s an… organism, a—we speculate—a complex kind of pyrosome, though it…” he sighs. “This may be difficult to hear, Mr. Collins, and I’m afraid there’s no way to say it that will not be shocking, but—well, it did keep you alive, this ouroboros. In the ocean. But unfortunately, it rather… attached itself to you, and I’m afraid it—well, I’m afraid we haven’t yet discovered how to remove it without detriment.” He pauses, smiles again. The expression doesn’t reach his eyes, Collins notices—those are full of fear.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32375539/chapters/80266048

[wormhole1998]

I believe my mental health is hinged on Trystan Gravelle at SDCC this year

[sofuton]