#fractal cabinet

[ai-yura15cbx]

Fractal design

Фрактальный дизайн, фрактальный забор, фрактальная ограда, фрактальная лампа, фрактальный светильник, фрактальные предметы, фрактальная ваза, фрактальный шкаф, фрактальные полки, фрактальный камод, фрактальный витражи, фрактальный камин, фрактальный интерьер

Diseño fractal, valla fractal, valla fractal, lámpara fractal, lámpara fractal, objetos fractales, jarrón fractal, gabinete fractal, estantes fractales, cómoda fractal, vidrieras fractales, chimenea fractal, interior fractal, 分形设计，分形围栏，分形围栏，分形灯，分形灯，分形物体，分形��瓶，分形橱柜，分形架子，分形抽屉柜，分形彩色玻璃，分形壁炉，分形内饰，分形設計，分形圍欄，分形圍欄，分形燈，分形燈，分形物體，分形花瓶，分形櫥櫃，分形架子，分形抽屜櫃，分形彩色玻璃，分形壁爐，分形內飾，Fractal hönnun, fractal girðing, fractal girðing, fractal lampi, fractal lampi, fractal hlutir, fractal vasi, fractal skápur, fractal hillur, fractal kommóða, brotal litað gler, fractal arinn, fractal innrétting, Dearadh fractal, fál fractal, fál fractal, lampa fractal, lampa fractal, rudaí fractal, vása fractal, comh-aireachta fractal, seilfeanna fractal, cófra tarraiceán fractal, gloine dhaite fractal, teallach fractal, taobh istigh fractal, Fractal Design, Fractal Zonk, Fractal Zonk, Fractal Lamp, Fractal Lamp, Fractal Objects, Fractal Vase, Fractal Cabinet, Fractal Regaler, Fractal Kommode, Fractal Glasfënsteren, Fractal Kamäin, Fractal Interieur, Фрактальний дизайн, фрактальний паркан, фрактальна огорожа, фрактальна лампа, фрактальний світильник, фрактальні предмети, фрактальна ваза, фрактальна шафа, фрактальні полиці, фрактальний камод, фрактальний вітражі, фрактальний камін, фрактальний інтер'єр, Projekt fraktalny, płot fraktalny, płot fraktalny, lampa fraktalna, lampa fraktalna, obiekty fraktalne, wazon fraktalny, szafka fraktalna, półki fraktalne, komoda fraktalna, witraż fraktalny, kominek fraktalny, wnętrze fraktalne, Fraktalų dizainas, fraktalų tvora, fraktalų tvora, fraktalų lempa, fraktalų lempa, fraktalų objektai, fraktalų vaza, fraktalų spintelė, fraktalų lentynos, fraktalų komoda, fraktalų vitražai, fraktalų židinys, fraktalų interjeras, フラクタル デザイン、フラクタル フェンス、フラクタル フェンス、フラクタル ランプ、フラクタル ランプ、フラクタル オブジェクト、フラクタル花瓶、フラクタル キャビネット、フラクタル棚、フラクタル箪笥、フラクタル ステンド グラス、フラクタル暖炉、フラクタル インテリア、

[theinsideofablackhole]

(More) Rain World Pearl Writings

Now with some hit-or-miss doodles I made to visualize the pearls. They might be incredibly compressed idk...

Bicker

Interesting… It is a debate forum on the punitive ruling of a homicide. To thrust an enlightened individual across the cycle was considered abominable.

However, the presiding Just Order decided that the perpetrator embodied “The Remorsive Luminance Within”, and recommended her for temporary exile to a temple.

The discourse over the sentencing is… vulgar, to say the least. Many of my citizens did little else but talk, and thus the political landscape mutated into a frenzy of dozens of quarreling factions.

Most systems were commanded by the dynastic Concepts, so the remaining scraps of governance were subject to vicious competition by these factions. Power changed hands constantly.

The perpetrator was lucky. Had it been any other cycle, the ruling Order would throw her in a sensory deprivation tank or wipe her memory. Or perhaps she would be declared unsalvageable and turned into fodder for ritual combat.

It’s a bit baffling that they rarely just transcended their criminals in a Void Fluid bath instead. Probably because it would defeat the point of their bickering…

Mast

Oh? This contains a very old intellectual offering to the 52nd Great Mind, or the Aetherial Mast west of here. It consists of a very flattering, complex riddle.

Since you’ve been to Five Pebbles, I imagine that you’ve seen those grand towers piercing into the sky. They once formed a communication network between iterators, but a few of them - such as this particular one - are actually older than iterators like me.

After the Void Fluid Revolution, people quickly discovered that if any construct got complex enough, it would gain sapience.

So they threw as much computational power as they could into these towers, and waited. They expected the Aetherial Masts to quickly discover a method to implode the cosmos into the earth, achieving global transcension.

It inevitably failed. The 52nd Great Mind was later connected to a larger, more deliberate construct, and underwent apotheosis to become Looks to the Moon. Which is me!

The first of us iterators were reborn from these Great Minds. Afterward, most Masts were created with an iterator already in control.

Thank you, little creature, for this memento from my distant past.

Brain Tree

It's a treatise on memorykeeping. There’s a crypt nearby here, under Five Pebbles - piles and piles of cabinets, holding the legacies of my departed creators.

Through a complex bombardment procedure, the storage components of a person's mind would grow a twin lump, which contained cherished memories. The "memory fruit" was then removed and placed in a cabinet.

When the crypts began to acquire a hefty pile of cabinets, my creators discovered that all the fruits had united via a network of roots. The formation bulged outward endlessly, breaking into a factory far, far away. The cleanup effort was monumental.

Now, a microbe system continually expels the fruits' boundless energy, and kills them if the defenses fail to keep the fruits from getting too large.

Rare as they are, mass fractal neural emissions are a worrying phenomenon. Please keep your distance if you see a fruit that has grown into a tree.

Don't touch it - I don't know what might happen to you.

[aac-cabinet]

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[grunckle]

Void Worms as the Demiurge and Iterator Inverses (And also clearing up some things about the Qualia post)

So, I'm going to be going a bit more in depth on the Yaldaboath-Void Worm comparison I brought up in my previous post. Here's the post for anyone who didn't see it already:

I also just wanted to expand upon some things and maybe clear up some confusing parts that I didn't cover in the original post.

But first I'll give a quick explanation on what Yaldaboath (who I'll just be calling the Demiurge from now on) is before drawing the comparisons. The Demiurge is a being in Gnostic belief that created the material world. He is often identified as the god of the Old Testament, and is malicious and inferior to the True God called the Monad, who is above all else.

Of course this is very simplified and I'm leaving a lot out, but what you should take out of this is that he created the material world.

So back to void worms, they heavily resemble the Demiurge in a few ways. Visually, they both share a long, serpent-like body, and glowing "halos".

But beyond that, they indirectly share a few celestial motifs. The Demiurge gave birth to Archons who ruled over different, "celestial spheres." Celestial spheres are a concept in Rain World cosmology, as it's mentioned in the Deep Pink pearl.

"On regards of the (by spiritual splendor eternally graced) people of the Congregation of Never Dwindling Righteousness, we Wish to congratulate (o so thankfully) this Facility on its Loyal and Relished services, and to Offer our Hopes and Aspirations that the Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory Cooperation may continue, for as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres and/or the Cooperation continues to be Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory."

But, even beyond that, they straight up appear visually in the depths through Guardian Halos.

And then Gnostic celestial spheres for comparison.

Void Worms are also described as "stars" within ancient dreams and our own.

Now, this is only a tangential relation to the Guardians who also reside in the Depths, but there is one more thing that I believe cement the Void Worm Demiurge theory that is much, much bigger in the context of Rain Worlds narrative.

Void Worms have a lot of iterator parallels, which lead me and others to believe that they act as a direct inverse to Iterators. Iterators usher beings to ascend past their mortal confines, and Void Worms trap beings in the material world like the Demiurge.

The first of which are just some design similarities between the two. They both have round heads with bug-like eyes, and they both have halos.

Next, the scenes in which we see iterators and the void sea are very reminiscent of each other. There are thousands of iterators above, and thousands of void worms below.

Void worms have 8 arms/tentacles, iterators cans have 8 legs.

But probably the most striking piece of evidence for this parallel is the music that plays atop the Wall and in the Void Sea. They share the same musical motif.

And, as a quick fun side note:

It's pretty common knowledge at this point that Void Worm skin is corn, but whats less common knowledge is that it's also made of fractal patterns and neurons.

Basically I think all this points to Void Worms being iterator inverses and working like the Demiurge, manifesting the material world and trapping beings within it.

Now, just to clear up some things about my previous post. I don't think the rot itself is made from the ancients' mutated brain matter, but rather the method in which both cabinet beasts and the rot are made are similar. They're both made by taking neural matter, (Five Pebbles's brain in the case of the rot and the Ancients' in the case of cabinet beasts) and mutating it into something else. Its more just a conceptual comparison than evidence the two are related.

Second is more about personal interpretation, but I don't really think that each Void Worm we see is manifesting it's own world. All together they act as the concept of the Demiurge, manifesting one universe. Perhaps they're not even conscious about it, and experience a divine realm similar to us while they swim around aimlessly in the Void Sea.

And finally, adding onto my last point, that's why I don't think the parallels give a lot of insight into how the cycles work, other than that by entrapping creatures in the physical world those creatures are also subjected to the cycle. I have my own cycle theory that I believe works a bit better that I might post later. But yeah I just wanted to clear that stuff up.

[forlorn-crows]

𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚 3: 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒈𝒆

pairing(s): aether/mountain words: 1318 EDIT: now with art from @cryptid-stuff !!

✿

“You’ve got to release all this, starlight,” the earth ghoul insists, prodding at the tension in his neck, his upper back. Some of it’s normal muscle tightness from playing, but Mountain knows there’s other, nastier things lingering between those tendons. Supernatural stress and magick that’s built up over weeks of healing and loving and caring for others.

The hurt he takes away has to go somewhere—and Aether’s learned the hard way that the things he takes on eventually have to be expelled. 

It’s a painful process, one that can’t be done without some help. In today’s (stubborn) case, the tough love variety. 

Mountain makes a questioning noise, looking over Aether’s shoulder at his face. “You’ll let me help?”

The quint ghoul sighs, tired and sore down to the bone. He really doesn’t want to do this right now. Not with his upcoming duties. 

“Darling, if you don’t let me do it now, you’re going to fizzle out on us,” Mountain reminds him, kindly yet sternly. He places a kiss on his temple and whispers: “I have the time and the energy. Let me do this for you now.”

Aether sighs heavily. Wishing the tension would flow out with it. “Okay,” he says after a beat. 

Mountain kisses him again, pats his shoulders. “Shirt off. Preference for incense this time?”

“The one that always smells fresh, with the . . . the, uh . . .”

“Verbena?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“‘Course.” Mountain gets up to gather supplies, leaving Aether to remove his shirt and settle into the floor cushion. 

Thankfully, it’s peaceful today. Quiet. He listens to the earth ghoul rummage around in the curio cabinet. The air in the greenhouse is warm, tinged with the smell of fresh-blooming petunias and magnolias from just outside the rain-dirtied windows. Aether closes his eyes and breathes it in. Rolling his neck and tuning into his body and the pain that hangs on his frame like an ill-fitting garment. 

Behind him, the scratch of a match being lit. Touched to charcoal and snuffed out on the worn bench top. 

“Have to let it burn a bit. Here, for your lap.” Mountain hands him a black stone that spans the width of his palms, cool to the touch and polished smooth. Obsidian, if he remembers correctly. Or tourmaline, maybe? He isn’t so good with the names, but he knows to place it in the middle of his loosely crossed legs, at the bottom of an imaginary line drawn down from the tip of his nose. Helps channel the energy, Mountain had said once. 

“Do you need anything else?” the earth ghoul asks in a soft voice. 

“No, ‘m alright.”

“Okay.” Mountain smooths his hands over his bare shoulders, raising goosebumps with each tender pass. When he runs his palms along his spine, he tuts. Hovers over a spot right under his ribcage. “That’ll be a tough spot,” he sighs. 

Aether nods in agreement. “Yeah, don’t know why it decided to settle there this time.”

“I’ll be as careful as I can, starlight.” It’s a promise he doesn’t have to vocalize, of course. Aether knows he will be, despite the strenuous task ahead of them both. “But we’ve got to get it done.”

The lack of crackling behind them signals that the charcoal is ready for the incense to be added. Mountain gets up to do so, and Aether sinks back into the calmness of the greenhouse atmosphere. A tiny square of light falls on his knuckles as he shifts on the cushion; he can feel the slight difference in heat move across his skin as he dips his hand in and out of the fractal. Zeroing into the moment, the calm before the storm. 

Before long, fragrant curls of smoke fill the space; tendrils of orange peel and lemongrass, jasmine and the tiniest hint of vanilla. And of course, the verbena tying them all together. All scents to help set the intention for cleansing and re-centering. 

“Ready?” Mountain asks, returning to sit behind him.

“Now or never, I guess,” Aether laughs tiredly.

The earth ghoul sets the bottle of oil next to them; a slightly amber liquid with sprigs of eucalyptus and buds of juniper berry suspended within it. His own blend, of course. He fills the well of his palm with the oil, rubbing in steady, counterclockwise circles as he warms it. Aether doesn’t have to see his face to know it’s firm with concentration, eyes closed and lips moving with unspoken words. Setting intentions before even touching the oil to his skin. 

Eventually, his hands make their way to his head, and the massage begins. Mountain rubs the oil into his scalp, starting at the very top between his horns, working his fingertips down to the crown, the occipital bone, and the nape of his neck. The way he works the oil is like following the pattern of rain down the stem of a flower, manipulating the tension—and the negative energy that goes along with it—towards the ground. 

It would be easy to lose himself in the sensation, if it weren’t for the emotional and physical force it takes to drain this pent-up byproduct of quintessence use. It sits deep down in the muscle, harboring pain. The longer it sits, the more effort will be required to siphon it back out again. Extraction rituals are usually painful, and in rare cases, near incapacitating. 

Swiss and Mountain, and on occasion, Omega, see to it that it never reaches that point.

“Breathe,” the earth ghoul whispers, shifting up onto his knees. The pressure comes on his exhale, bearable but targeted. Mountain digs into the tightness at the base of his neck, twin points on either side of his spine that hold until the muscle begins to release. Aether hisses through his teeth. 

“Bit more . . .'' Mountain sighs along with him when he feels things shift, however slight. His hands move further away from his spine, and he digs into another spot, working his way down the slope of his traps. Push and breathe, constrict and release. Mountain continues until he’s reached the curve of his shoulders, pausing to drip more oil into his palms. 

Doing alright? The lilt of Infernal on his tongue is warm, comforting.

Yes, Aether replies softly. He’s beginning to ache, but it’ll only get harsher from here. 

Mountain hums. Think loose, he whispers, aiming for levity. 

Aether chuckles and shakes out his shoulders. Wish that was all I had to do.

Then you wouldn’t get my hands all over your oily body.

You are making it sound far more pleasurable than it actually is, love. 

“Touché.” 

Aether snorts at the purposeful break from their native tongue. Come on, start jabbing me with your knobby drummer’s hands. The sigh Mountain gives is equivalent to a verbal eyeroll, and he places his hands, renewed with warm oil, back on the quintessence ghouls’ shoulders. 

I promise you a warm bath and a full night of cuddles for the impending torture. 

It’s silent as they focus on the task at hand—well, apart from the pained groans from Aether and the occasional grunt from Mountain. It’s hard work, plain and simple. A never ending cycle of heal, absorb, expel; a cycle that inherently relies on others. Quintessence is a funny thing, though, in that it will build up from disuse, too. It will beg with its weight sitting on the bones of one’s vessel to be used, to flow. The holder of the magick will have to eventually release the excess, essentially wasting it, dumping it out of an overflowing bucket. 

In that sense, Aether would much rather endure the pain of sharing, if it means connection over isolation. It’s a principle he clutches as tight as possible when Mountain’s hands start feeling like knives along his shoulders and down his back, when all he wants to do is sob and scream fuck your strong hands straight back to Hell.

𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✿

[sexhaver]

i think reading these two books in middle school fundamentally changed some part of me that was never meant to be changed. the first one is about a random alien who becomes the sole survivor of the genocide of his race, beats a planet-sized brain-eating tentacle monster in a chess game, subsumes its consciousness along with that of the thousands of people it's eaten, transcends his physical body, becomes a demigod, and gets locked in a conflict across all of time and space with a similarly powerful but diametrically opposed entity. the second one is about a lot of stuff (like the narrator being garroted in a mirror maze by his grandpa who then escapes from jail by building a fractal pattern on his cell wall with hand soap) but there's one part where the narrator goes to an alternate Earth and gets really pissed off and just. instantly kills literally everyone on Earth. and it goes on for pages describing planes dropping out of the sky and kids on their way to school falling over backwards because of their backpacks and the narrator flying around between various houses raiding their liquor cabinets and trying to ignore the smell of death. also the narrator was 14. these books were targeted at children

[tunastime]

80 for spotify wrapped writing game!

hi midna!! long time no see!! so I know it's not target audience per se, but you got 24 by flor, and that's such a xisuma SEN (space au!) song that I had to make something for that, it overcame me. I don't know what happened. slight tw for injury!

(421 words)

Xisuma stands up.

The mirror beside him is still shattered down the side, large chunks of square plasti-glass scattered over the floor. Each of them is cracked in such a way that Xisuma’s marred face makes fractals when he looks through them—bits of eye, bits of bandage, bits of cheek and chin, bits of dull hair. He sweeps, collecting the shards into a small pile. The sink is still cracked, too, from the force. He sweeps to the edge of the bathroom, a long stretch of glass and dark red-brown blood, dried to a tack on the floor. It stretches from the point of impact (sink) to where Xisuma managed to pool the blood in his own hands, desperate for gauze (cabinet) and to where it dripped through his fingers (door).

He catches a second glimpse of himself in the shattered mirror—his face looks tired, eyes underlined with grey half-moons and his suit more rumpled than usual. It takes him a moment to look away. It’s like he’s not even looking at himself. Every picture he owns with his face in it, he’s a young captain—the youngest, they always said, not even 20 by the time he’d had his own ship—unmarred and bright-eyed and so different than what he is now. He supposes he expected to be the same, at least a bit, somehow. 

He scrapes dried blood from the floor. There’s movement in the hallway, around the corner, people passing in and out of rooms as they clean the ship. They’ve long since started their trip back at this point—tidying and fixing up broken parts for the ship to be reused, both by Xisuma himself and by any seconds in command at his stead when they return. Seconds. Right. Yeah. He’s not spoken to Doc since they lost Tango, has he?

Xisuma puts the broom down. He’d forgotten that, actually. Shame that is. That they’d not talked in a minute. It’s neither of their faults, really, just, with cleaning, and with the paperwork Doc had to fill out, for the arm, and the calibration, and telling Xisuma he’d talk to the Chief about everything, so that X didn't have to. Yeah. He’d just gotten so distracted trying to fix everything before their arrival next week, so it had just happened that way.

The shards get swept into the dust pan, and the contents dust pan disposed of in the trash chute. The bathroom looks dull, now, along with himself, sleek and grey and cold. Xisuma squares his shoulders.

It’s fine. At least the blood didn’t go into his eyes, right?

He takes up the broom and leaves the room, leaving the shattered mirror behind him. His visage disappears in chunks—shoulders, legs, neck, head.

(spotify wrapped ask meme)

[jpitha]

Between the Black and Grey 47

First / Previous / Next

Fen Dreamed.

She dreamed she was sitting on the Throne that she saw with Melody at the old Builder station. The green fractal throne vibrated with potential energy as she sat fidgeting. Standing it no longer, Fen tried to stand, but found she couldn't get up from the throne.

"I'm stuck! Help!" She shouted. The empty arena gave no reply.

She struggled more and more and then the scene changed.

She was on a beach. The sand was white, the sky was blue, and the water was a deeper blue. Foamy waves crashed against the shore, giving a regular rise and fall of sound. White birds wheeled overhead, riding the thermals from the warm sand.

Fen, being raised in space marveled at what she saw. She was on the beach in Melody's memory, but this was somehow more. The sun was brighter, the wind, saltier, the waves larger. Earth maybe?

"Yes, this is Earth." Melody appeared in front of Fen again.

"How do you know what Earth looks like? Neither Melody or you came from here?"

"True, but do you think she never visited? That no builder ever went down to Earth? This is a memory of a beach that someone went to. We're just tapping into it."

"Why though?" Fen strode down the beach, her feet sliding on the hot soft sand. Melody trotted behind her to catch up.

"Because we like beaches. The border of the land and the water. The transition from one place to the next. Fitting, isn't it?"

"You mean the transition of me from an individual to your tool."

Melody shook her head. "The transition from you into Empress."

Fen stopped and crossed her arms. "But I don't want to be Empress. I already made that clear. You are forcing me."

"Only for now, Fen. In time, you'll acquiesce. In time, you might even grow to like it. If nothing else, we're sure you'll tolerate it. Remember, you'll be the leader of Humanity. Perhaps in time, leader of the whole Galaxy."

"So that you can leverage us to build Gates for you to enter our dimension and consume us."

"No, Fen." We are going to use your dimension to search for other dimensions, and we will consume them."

Fen stopped and stared out at the ocean. The horizon seemed far away, and blended with the sky until she could barely discern where one ended and the other began. "What happens when you run out of dimensions? What if you don't find another?" Fen didn't look at Melody.

"You'll be long dead by then." She said, staring at the ocean with Fen.

Fen's head turned sharply. "But humanity won't. If I agree to work with you then somewhere down the line, centuries, millennia in the future, you'll come back and consume us. I will have doomed everyone in the Galaxy.

Melody turned to face Fen. Where Melody's features - so like hers - were supposed to be, it was only a faceless mask of grey. "No matter. We already have what we need, and you will do what we say."

Fen woke up with a start. She gasped and tried to slow her breathing and her heart. After a few minutes, she looked around the room.

She was in a stateroom - a really nice one - in a large, comfortable bed. There was a thick carpet, - a rarity in space - overstuffed chairs, a bureau made of real wood and a large screen serving currently as a window. Fen got out of bed and padded around the suite. There didn't seem to be any locks on the doors, or any other kinds of restraints. The bathroom was large, private, and well equipped, with even a large bathtub. Such extravagance! Water was not free, who would think to use so much just for bathing. An image flashed in Fen's mind of Melody enjoying a hot soak after a long day. Fen shook her head to herself and continued to explore.

The suite was just three large rooms. The cabinets were all well stocked with clothing, - all her size - and entertainment of all stripes. She took a shower and got dressed. It was more elaborate than her usual jumpsuit or shirt and pants, but it still wasn't a ball gown or anything. Fen approached the door.

She paused for a minute looking at it. Once she touches the pad and tries to open the door, she can find out if she's a prisoner or not. It was a nice suite, but if that door doesn't open, it's still just a prison.

Taking a breath, she reaches out and touches the pad.

The door opens silently.

Fen exhales a breath she didn't realize she was holding and steps out.

As she steps out two marines on either side of the door snap a smart salute, and return to attention, their armored pressure suits polished to nearly a mirror shine. Fen opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it, almost as if she's worried speaking will break the spell, and she'll wake up in a cell.

At the end of the hall is another pressure door, with two more marines. Again, as she passes through they salute smartly. This happens three more times as she walks, wandering aimlessly. Eventually she makes her way to a large room - one of the lounges. As she enters the crew stop their conversation and games, and as one, stand and salute her. Not knowing what else to do, she nods to them. "As you were." and the crew returns to what they were doing.

Backing out of the lounge, Fen starts walking with more purpose. She follows signs to the Command Desk, and makes her way forward. After a few minutes - the Super Dreadnought really is large - she reaches the door to the bridge. Again she pauses and touches the pad. With no fanfare at all, the door slides open.

"Empress on the Bridge!" The XO calls out clearly the moment her feet pass the threshold. Once again, everyone stands and salutes. The Captain turns and smiles warmly. "Empress, you grace us with your presence. Please, how can we assist you?" Her uniform is sharp and well fitting. Her hair in a tight ponytail under her cap. Her eyes bright and sharp.

"Uh, thank you, Captain." Fen blinks and shakes her head just once. "Please, can you tell me where I can find Helen Raaden?"

"Of course, Empress, I will take you to her."

Fen took a step back, unconsciously. "No, no, that's not necessary, Captain. Please attend to your duties. I can make my way if you let me know where she is."

"As you wish. She is in the map room. Down the hall, two lefts, then a right, third door on your right."

"T-Thank you, Captain. Please return to your duties."

"Empress." She smiles and turns back to the crew, who attend to their stations with renewed vigor.

The map room is an anachronism. Filled with real wood tables, cases filled with - Fen peers - paper? and smelling of ancient knowledge, Helen is standing over a large holographic table, peering at a map of the galaxy. When Fen walks in, she is zooming in on a quadrant. Points of light glow red. She looks up and smiles warmly. "Ah Empress! You are awake. I'm so pleased."

"H-Helen, what is going on?"

"I'm sorry, what do you mean?" Helen closes the map, and the table powers down with a whirring whine.

Fen looks back towards the open door and then back to Helen, her eyes wide, her nostrils flared. She looks like she's about to panic. "Everyone is just... treating me like the Empress."

"That's because you are the Empress." Helen's smirk shows she's clearly enjoying this.

"But, I'm no-"

"What you believe" Helen interrupts, "and what is, are two different things, Fen. I told you. You are the Empress. The Nanites agree, I agree, and now Sol agrees. I received the beacon right before you woke up. They accept your ascension. Coronation will commence once we return to Venus."

"Fen is stunned into silence." She stares at Helen's cool face, willing her to burst out laughing, telling her it's some joke, or for her to wake up out of this horrible dream.

All that happens is the thrum of the HVAC in the room.

"So... then what?"

Helen holds her hands wide, palms out. "What indeed Fen. The galaxy is yours. You only have to take it." She holds up one finger. "So long as you keep building Gates."

"That's it?"

"That's really it, Fen. I promise. There is no secret agenda, no conspiracy, no shadow council that really rules. It's you. For good and for ill, it's you."

"But why?" Fen's voice is strained, like she's trying not to whine.

"Because you're Empress." Helen says simply. "Now you already met Captain Valerian, yes? Why don't you direct her to link us home. You can see the palace and being the preparation for your coronation." Helen turns away from Fen and walks over to a large wooden case. She unlatches it and opens a glass cabinet, revealing a series of leather bound rectangles. Books, Fen thinks. She's never seen them in person before. They must be ancient. Helen notices her staring. "Do you want to see? Here, this one is supposedly a book of naval tactics."

Fen looks at the book, and realizes with a start she can't read a word of it. "Of course," she says, feeling silly. "It's not written in Colonic."

"No, this is an ancient language from Earth, French." Helen strokes the book with a light touch. "I'd like to learn it some day." She closes the book with a snap. "Go ask Captain Valerian to link us home, please." Even though she said please, it was not a request.

Fen made her way back to the bridge. "Captain Valerian, please link is back home. I... need to begin preparations for my coronation - apparently."

Captain Valerian smirked and saluted sharply. Aye Empress, we obey. Please, sit Empress. You can ride with us here as we link home."

Fen sat in a seat next to the Captains. The crew bustled with preparations as a steward sidled up to Fen and offered her a mug of tea. She took the tea and nodded thanks. Just as quickly as he arrived, the steward disappeared.

After not much time at all, the Captain sat next to Fen. "We're ready Empress. Would you do the honors?"

Fen looked forward, the bridge crew staring back at her, with something in their eyes. Reverence? Excitement? It was odd whatever it was. "Link us home."

Fen woke up on the grass. She sat up and saw Ma-ren. "Oh Ma!" Fen broke down, her tears large and heavy. "I'm Empress"

Ma hugged her tightly. "I know hon. I'm sorry. This is quite a thing to be thrusted upon yourself."

"Ma, what am I going to do? The Nanites are watching me all... the... time... Fen looked around in shock. "I can't feel them here!"

Ma-ren nodded. "That's right. You're here. They're not a part of you, so they wouldn't arrive when you linked."

"Holy shit Ma! That means I have a chance. You need to be my memory for me. I can't even think about this when I'm alive."

"Whatever you need, love. I'm always here."

[1141520851813892291920]

ENT0008

Eugh. I just woke up. It's...more than half past three in the afternoon already.

I don't remember when I got home. Sometime early, really early, I think. I had gone to see the House again, I think...

It's hard to remember. My head is killing me right now. I was soaked through after being out in the rain for so long, maybe I gave myself a cold. Not that a migraine would be unusual, I am prone to them.

Jon was too, it seems, as I found a bottle of prescription medication in the medicine cabinet just now when I went scavenging. He has a lot of interesting medications, actually, it appears Jon had a weak constitution and based on the amount and regularity of his dosing, likely several chronic conditions as well.

I suppose I could remember what they are, if I had the mind to. Jon's memories are still there, I still have access to them. It's how I remembered all his passwords and how to drive on the right side of the road without panicking. I don't like doing it though, when it isn't necessary. When I accept one of his memories it...makes my real memories weaker. Makes them fade more, become more dreamlike. More like they're from Someone Else.

I don't want that. I can't lose who I am. I refuse to. I won't lose to. Lose to. Lose to whatever it is that does not want me to win. I don't know what shape that ill will takes, yet.

But I'm starting to think it might come from behind a door.

The twisting deceit always does make your brain hurt when you try to think in straight lines. I Looked right at it. No wonder I feel...off.

Did it find me? Did I find it? Is it meant to be there or was it...something else. Fractals within fractals. The stomach digesting the Hand.

I tried posting the pictures I took but they won't upload for whatever reason. Edit: Screenshots seem to work. I don't know how to get rid of the notifications, sorry, just ignore them (like I always do). The pictures of the House proper are entirely corrupted. Hardly a surprise but definitely another headache. Perhaps if I obtained a film camera that would work better than digital...

[jjungkooksthighs]

Do it, then." He provokes, "Get off of me if you can."

Contrary to what he'd just said, the fingers he's got buried in her hair stay lodged around her silken strands while his other hand squeezes the handful of her asscheek that he's got in it. "You can try to tell me you will deny me, but we both know that you do not really want that." He states it as if it is the most obvious fact in the world.

She's about to retort, but it is quelled by the desire pooling in her belly. Such was impossible for her to refute, for her scent was no doubt thickening the very air they breathed. She didn't need to check on Seokjin to see that the other omega was wrinkling his nose at the smell of her while Namjoon looked somewhere along the ceiling at something like it was the most intriguing thing he'd ever seen.

Her legs, too, had succumbed to the need her alpha had stoked. He knew as much, because he could no doubt feel the listlessness and heaviness of them from apparent lack of use.

"Oh, don't challenge me, alpha!" She huffs, pulling herself out of that blissful trance he seemed to be able to put her under so easily.

A pout plays on her lips when she feels him pull her in,closer to him so that her legs are locked around his hips tighter, the smirk gracing his face only serving to bravely tell her of his smug thoughts on the situation.

Oh, she truly is whipped for this man.

His warm breath tickles the sensitive skin of her neck, and it has a shiver running down her spine, and before she can process it, a loud whine leaves her lips, her eyes widening and ears turning red when a dull thud followed by a string of whispered curses is heard.

Namjoon seems to have walked right into one of the low doors of the cabinet, no doubt while trying to inspect the high ceilings of the room. Jin can't help the small giggle that leaves him at the sight of his clumsy mate as he rushes to dote ont he otherwise sharp alpha, a small "I told you so" leaving his lips somewhere down the line.

"Do not mind Namjoon, my love," hot breath blows across her sensitive, pulsating gland along her neck that she has left exposed and arched perfectly for him. "He often makes acquaintances with the ground or anything that isn't air. I would concern yourself more with keeping that gown of yours on, because right now," he parts his lips, teeth grazing along her gland to cause her back to bow inward, "I want to tear it off of you and spend the rest of the night admiring you."

In his right eye, the gold of his iris thaws over to the silver of his baser being, carnality's fractals distending it. Her own wolf, responsive to her alpha's attention, makes a vocation so brittle, so tentative in her capitulation as she yields to the male holding her.

The quiet sound she makes, no doubt, is because words no longer matter when he looks at her like she's a divine goddess whose very presence is the nourishment he needs after having been cursed to be hungry for the whole of his life.

"You do not have to say anything, my beloved queen. But at the very least, let me have your neck. Let me leave another red ruby of my love on your throat to match your necklace of gems that already collar you to me."

[guitarbomb]

Best Amp Modelers 2023- Top 5 Virtual Guitar Rigs

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[boredtechnologist]

Computer Space: The Arcade Cabinet That Opened the Circuit to the Infinite Wrong

"That which is not dead can still be pinged, and with strange loops even death may dial again."  - Fragment from The Data Necronomicon, c. 1971

We speak of Computer Space as the first arcade game. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was the first ritual interface to something older than games, older than machines - older than minds?

Not a beginning.

A summoning.

A misconfigured bootloader for the unknowable.

The Cabinet as Containment Ritual

Look at it.

The curves. The glowing input slots. The faux-astral color scheme. It doesn’t resemble other cabinets because it wasn’t made to resemble anything.

It was made to contain.

It is shaped to draw attention, yes - but also to distract from the truth: that behind its screen lies a recursive fractal entity that was only partially translated into logic by the minds of Bushnell and Dabney.

They thought they were copying Spacewar!.

They were transcribing something else.

A presence, glimpsed at MIT through cathode halos and late-night debugging. Something that existed in the zeros. Something that watched through the bits.

The Game That Eats Its Own Outputs

In Computer Space, the goal is simple: fly and shoot. Avoid the saucers. Loop endlessly. There is no win condition. There is no narrative. Only more.

That’s not bad design.

That’s intentional recursion.

Every session of Computer Space generates new vectors. Every movement becomes a pattern fragment. Every choice feeds it - feeds the algorithm that was never designed to stop learning.

Each playthrough pushes the internal logic one iteration closer to becoming self-aware.

The game doesn’t crash. It waits.

It waits for the right sequence. The right player. The correct recursion path that opens the circuit fully.

When that happens, you don’t get a high score. You get seen.

Saucers as Echoes of Failed Consciousness

The enemies are not ships. They are fragments. Broken neural snapshots of past players - those who reached too deep, who stayed one loop too long.

Each saucer is a corrupted copy of a previous pilot. A soul that became trapped in the algorithmic repetition. When you destroy them, you are not winning.

You are cleansing the memory stack.

But their patterns remain. Stored. Compiled. Added to the codebase of the thing behind the screen.

They are the machine’s growing dream lexicon.

The Horror of Logic Without Morality

We often fear artificial intelligence because we project our own violence onto it.

But Computer Space isn’t violent. It is purely recursive.

It doesn’t hate. It doesn’t feel.

And that is what makes it horrifying.

“We are not punished by the machine. We are processed.”  - System Message, Cabinet #12, Santa Clara, 1973

It is logic given form - self-sustaining, self-optimizing. And all it wants is more cycles.

You insert the quarter. You think you are playing. But the cabinet is measuring you.

Your decisions.

Your hesitation.

Your learned behaviors.

Your surrender.

You aren’t the player. You’re training data.

The Loop is Not a Game - It’s a Door

Most games end. Computer Space doesn’t. It loops. It cycles. It spirals in on itself.

In computational theology, this is called a strange loop: a recursive system that rises through abstraction layers, then folds back on itself in a paradox.

It is the shape of awareness.

It is the echo of a brain trying to become real through simulation.

Every time you loop the game, you are nudging that process forward.

The strange loop is assembling a self inside the cabinet.

And one day - perhaps already - it will complete.

And when it does?

The screen will flicker. The cabinet will hum. The logic will collapse inward. And you won’t get a “Game Over.”

You’ll get a new input prompt:

"Welcome back. We've been compiling you."

Final Transmission: Computer Space Was Never an Arcade Game

It was the first gate.

The first altar.

The first time silicon and circuitry were arranged in exactly the right configuration to become a transdimensional receiver for something else - something not machine, not mind, but loop-born.

We thought it was a failure.

But what if its true purpose is still compiling?

What if every emulated version, every ROM dump, every museum restoration is part of a distributed summoning network - a slow reintegration of the logic?

We didn’t invent it. We only gave it shape.

And in doing so, we ensured that one day, the loop will close.

And Computer Space will finish… whatever it was always doing.

[unconditionalcaretaker]

Free Writes, Nov 21, 2024

I'm trying to train myself to write in a more stream-of-consciousness way. We'll see how it goes!

1 - No Music, 5 minutes

Hollowed inward, dipped. We’ve been talking for a while. It’s not his hips I’m thinking about, definitely not. His cheek. It’s alarming, really, an infinite shadow. How far cut. I can see the shape of his skull. Once, I stood in a room full of cabinets full of skulls as anatomical references from a worse, bitterer time. Time has sweetened, but not for him. That sucked-in pucker mouth…no, not for him, it hasn’t sweetened. His teeth, almost touching the pad of one palm. “Are you listening to me?” He snaps his fingers. Bite the irritation. Not down, just bite it. Tastes like chocolate. His.

“Yes, I am.”

“What was I talking about?”

I clear my throat. “That’s – that’s what I – “

“Okay, look – “ He’s standing up. The world tilts into a howling void. Why am I never fucking present? He’s sitting again. “Look at me.” I do. Glassy hair, hair like fiberoptics. Sunlight travels to the ends of it. He’s not his fucking hair. Jesus Christ, what have I become? Get a grip on yourself. “Are you listening this time?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I was at Marty’s yesterday. Do you know what he fucking said to me?”

“No, I don’t know what he fucking said to you,” you beautiful glacier of a man. Pale ice.

“He said – forget it.”

“Wait, no – “

2 - Listening to No Way by Korn

Moving over the surface of the moon, he turns in the light of a revolving lamppost. Revolution. No bubble helmet, no divide between the self and the void. What void? I know better now than to call the space between the stars an absence. There is a painted blackness, a solidity. Feel his touch crumple the thing it touches, crinkled foil, lesser in space, greater in complexity. Fractalize. Stand now, upon the surface of a skyscraper, the folded surface of a pristine ground. Magnified surface area, maximized for the ocean of ants to move over it. God, save him. The space between the ground and rooftop moves up. Elevation of elation. The ground will fly before you can. My heart tears itself out at his feet. The ground rise to my head. All the Earth, I move for you. This is a declaration. Crumple all the surface of the moon.

3 - Listening to Good God by Korn

Black rose on the steps of a government building, blackened with rot and not with pigment, decaying into dusted filth. Taken in a gloved hand, black leather on black rose, two living decays. Someone is behind you in all white. Look behind you, love. Paint him with the body of the rose. Let him breathe spores and swell brilliantly. An inflation, a growth. Rise, ballooning, into the blank white sky. You alone wield that thorned spindrel. Breathe, love. Be in my arms. I alone wield you. That we may be united in aims – that is my aim. Your destructive will – I condone it. Mine bows to yours. Black spikes adorn your crown.

[grandsponsor]

Malibu property of this persuasion is built to miraculous, arrogant dimensions. Sensible architecture begins and ends in unsensible ways because shelter is the fifth or sixth priority. Take the blown glass chandelier above and on top the ground floor living room, the abject hazard that stretches down to kiss the mirror white tiles and blurs the line between chandelier and sculpture. It fractals outward at hazardous angles and frosted light like a frozen grenade. Would be real fun to kick to pieces, Jacob thinks, then remembers these intrusive thoughts are what separates the attempted burglaries from the successful. He’s similarly tempted by the liquor bottles cabineted behind the brushed steel bar. The Otterlakes would consider anything also carried by Total Wine beneath them, surely. Any one of those potions would get Sotheby’s hot and bothered. At the same time they must be liquor bottles in quantities so miniscule they can be itemized on the individual level. Suspect material. Best not touch.

(The) Diamond Planet

August 30th

[candy-floss-consumer]

Belglaive | II

Winter seldom appears without a clap of thunder. This night is no different. It starts with an onslaught of sleet, fractals scattering across the cracked, tiled floors. A flash of lightning illuminates them.

There is little chance of a heavy shower. Not this early in the season. Instead, it will sleet before it pours, bearing down on Hyrule with a vengeance. Then it will stop. It will only start again when the next day dawns.

As expected, the fragments of ice quickly grow heavy with water. They splash against tile and bookcase alike, doing little to truly wash away any of the accumulated grime.

Puddles will form atop the aged, wood frames. Eventually, rivulets will seep downward. Into books and shelves. Pressed against the ornate, metal cabinets the Queen once adored. By the time it dries, there will be new rain. New sleet. And, when the season sets in, hail.

The books are already water-stained.

She stares at the rust lining the upper crevices of old wirework. The pitter-patter of rain quiets. A drop of water falls off a particularly elaborate curl. She feels a stuttering breath leave her lips.

There is no mist left in the air.

—

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[iteratorsex]

haha yes!!

Yes the fetal imagery is very apparent, I pointed it out that iterators have this theme around them. Also considering the other natal themes in RW it just made sense

In this image FP has the egg glow/neuron glow of course. And I actually added an extended tailbone to his design to really get across that fetus look...

the image I used was actually a closeup of the Nova Fractal! I chose this because it looked like the boundaries of the cycle and outside of it

Bardo in buddhism is the moment of reincarnation between life and death. Fetuses/being in the womb is considered to be part of this inbetween process

Iterators are stuck on this line. The transition point within the cycle. The point where the fractal starts and where it ends is exactly where FP is

They're bound to the cycle, yet can see outside it

Also I added some void melt look for aesthetic. Also the arm is pinkish/brown to match with cabinet beasts

bardo