"Traffic By Katherine Ciel" By Sunny Jensen

low-poly, ps1-ish Batter

the sheep in question, within their little field that i made so he can keep them safe and happy. is this how wooing works.

having feelings for a guy is crazy im up at 12 am felting him a flock of sheep bc he mentioned that he likes sheep one (1) time

Love is a shambling thing, gray-faced and gasping.

It moves in from the west, the setting sun behind it. Those who see it avert their eyes.

Love stumbles and shutters, Love grasps but is not grasped. It sees a man, and the man does not look away.

Love reaches out a gray hand.

The man touches the hand just lightly, just on the palm, and the man feels heat inside of him. His heart is on fire.

This is not a metaphor.

His heart is on fire and so, soon, is his skin, his hair, his teeth become more and more visible as his face shrinks and melts away.

Love watches dispassionately. Love does not love what it does, Love only does it. Love does not have eyes and neither, now, does the man.

Love is a shambling thing.

It climbs through a window into an infant’s bedroom.

When one of the mothers comes in to check on her baby son, there is love, too, in the crib, curled up inside him.

Love murmurs, and the baby spits restlessly. The baby does not burn, the baby will eventually burn, but by then he will not be a baby.

The woman looks down at the ghastly form of Love curled up beside her son and she thinks, “What have I done?” She cries, not because she is happy or sad, but because that is what her body needs to do next.

Love rises from the crib and passes her without a glance.

Love is a shambling thing. It shambles out of her home.

Love, with skin that peels and pops and joints that moan and snap, climbs to the top of a tall building and surveys its surroundings. So many people.

It opens its mouth. Its teeth are the only part of its body that look new and healthy.

It has so many teeth...

It yelps and howls, an inarticulate sermon of lost and loss, and everyone hears it. They hear it as a shudder in their stomach and hitch in their step.

Love does not eat or drink, love separates its many teeth and consumes.

Love is a shambling thing, grey-faced and gasping.

It moves out to the east, the night drawing closed behind it. Those who see it avert their eyes.

i am sort of a boy. i am sort of a creature. i was a girl once but never a woman. maybe as i grow ill feel more man than boy. i am a guy. dude gender neutral. he and they but also i am my mother’s daughter. not in a feminine way just in an i love her way. does this make sense? she calls me her favorite daughter (her only daughter) and i never wanted to give that up. i am her daughter like blood is a link and like a boat is she. but im still a boything. male in the way a mushroom is neither plant or flesh but also is both. can you hear me? do you understand?

spiders as a decentralized currency. i got 27 spiders in my spider account

Age of Innocence by Toskovat’

just found this comic i drew in 2012

compilation of this type of post

Hmmmm hm. Okay. Worldbuilding/story idea.

One million years after humanity disappears, octopi and ravens have independently developed sapience. And one day an octopus child and an elder raven meet at the edge of the ocean.

Where is your mother and father? asks the raven. I have no mother or father, says the octopus, blushing pale. All octopi are children. Once we’re grown, we will mate and we will die. It is the first and the last thing our mothers tell us.

But that’s horrible, says the raven. It’s not all bad, says the octopus. We play, we hunt, we make games for ourselves in the deep. Yes, but who remembers your songs? the raven says. Who passes down your stories?

What is a story? the octopus asks.

And the raven thinks about this question. And finally it says: A story is how you remember things in the past. It is how you know where you come from, and what happened before you were born. A story can be a warning, or it can be advice, or it can be a silly joke told to make you feel good. Someone remembers the story and tells it to the next generation, who remember the story and tells it to the generation after them.

And the octopus thinks about this answer. And finally it says: Can you tell me a story?

And the raven tells the octopus a story. And it’s a good story. And the next day the octopus returns and asks for another. The next day it brings its octopus friends, and the raven brings its raven friends, and many stories are shared on the edge of the ocean.

Months later, the octopus returns to the raven. I am grown, it says. I am returning to the sea to find a mate and lay my brood. I will not be coming back. I’m sorry.

I will miss your company, says the raven.

I have one thing to ask you, says the octopus. In time my children will come to the edge of the ocean. I would like you to tell them a story I have made. And when they have stories of their own, I would like your children to remember them and pass them down to my children’s children.

Of course, says the raven. What is your story about?

And the octopus thinks, and says: It is about an octopus child and an elder raven who meet at the edge of the ocean.

And this story has been passed down to this day.