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Where did this come from? I checked the Library last night, and this wasn't there. What happened while I was asleep?!
My entire life has boiled down to this moment. This keyboard. What I write to you now is my blood, shed for your amusement.
bites you
- MissDirection (She/Her)
In reality it’s april fools today and that’s why the site looks like this.
- MissDirection (She/Her)
This is completely normal, what are you talking about? How have you not noticed the food all around us? IT'S EATING TIME!
-Bowl of Stygian Blueberries
What is life if not the contrast between what has been and what will become?
See, this is actually what's normal. That whole green, booky thing? That was a long joke we all put up.
Time for yummies, dig in!
Fires rage just below the surface of the ice.
I’ll pose a theory—but I'm by no means a Schopenhauer, Lao Tzu, Nietzsche. It's all dependent—subjective. If the rotary dials, solenoids of a mind will align it may even wring out into some approximation of a truth. The spirit of 1950s-1960s back issues of Better Homes and Gardens and Good Housekeeping has infiltrated The Library—steeping behind the plaster panels, the inlaid motifs of Plato, Confucius, Socrates, Cthulhu where it metabolized, turned muscle, flesh into aspic, nerve and capillaries into diced strands of canned Vienna sausages and steamed egg yolk—keeled against silver dishpans, melamine ashtrays until it thickens, solidifies, slices apart, the spurts of a dislocated bout of neon and Levittown paper-mache, miracle-gro masks reincarnated—one placing its ten-cent chips and glasses of peroxide milkshakes on innovation and taste buds the consistency of charred denim magnified under a electron microscope—aspic salad in the buttons of a service elevator, floodlit by a incandescent bulb.
Aspic salad sealed between the ridges of knuckles. Aspic salad beneath the vinyl—felt and velum imploding on a latitude underneath the heel of a palm. Aspic salad while speeding through an intersection, flooring the pedal on a 1976 Cadillac El Dorado, watching the speedometer sweep, curve forwards, as the V-8 radiator whistles a mourning for a world long lost to unleaded gasoline, rapping against the quarter panels, agitating the lights from the palisades, edifices of safety glass and polished, rebar laced sandstone softly clumping beading together to fall, crack over the windshield and fingers growing almost translucent like cartilage around the forks of the steering wheel.
(April Fool's)
Oh, how beautiful broken glass is, rendered smooth and satin in the water…
Look, I’m gonna be honest I’m too busy munching through my bowl of human teeth to read all of that.
Have a nice day.
~Dreamer
Time is like an aspic salad—non-newtonian and flexible. Cyclical, even. The beauty of it all is that—why can't one have both? Everywhere at once. Snackin' while reading.
(On a little more serious note, ouch, that hurts. However I think for all intents and purposes it's all in good fun, after all, so I won't press further, haha.)
Oh, how beautiful broken glass is, rendered smooth and satin in the water…
Ah, screw it. I'll get a plate of deep fried draconian devils. Spicy and crispy! It'll only cost me the feeling in an area of my body. I choose my left funny bone.
(I got sunburned earlier this week)
With regards,
draco99
My entire life has boiled down to this moment. This keyboard. What I write to you now is my blood, shed for your amusement.
