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Dream. A simple one-syllable word with a very confusing purpose.

What do you dream of at night, he had asked. Her eyes close to blink, but they don't fully close. Her lips part in a relaxed sense of almost speaking too soon. Does he mean when I lie awake at night? Those dreams, the aspirations and achievements I imagine gaining as I find my place in this world that has no place for me? Surely not. His question curiously probed at the secrets that grew within her mind during the most quiet and private part of the day. What did she dream of? What horrors or what romances came to life when she closed those heavy-lidded eyes?

She returned her eyes to darkness just then, as if she needed to drift off into some surrogate form of slumber long enough to conjure up those vivid images that visited her in the dark. Because they were always there, weren't they? Etched onto the heavily manufactured surfaces of her brain, these images were easy enough to recall - just not as easily interpreted.

A flash of the coldest blue, and her eyes are reaching out for him to help her understand. "A mother," she begins sadly. "Or a beautiful woman," her tone raises a few notches hopefully, "...red flowing hair, her face is painted with the colors of the sunrise that faces her back. It's all blue, and red, and orange and white... And she's laughing.

No.

She's singing."

Her eyes drop down, aware that her description is once again beginning to sound very much like a description of her own self. Recognizing that this is the point where things become frustratingly vague. The wires become hopelessly crossed. Disappointedly resigned that the message is always lost on people who disregard replicant dreams as nothing more than what was chosen for them. At random or not. A delusion. A creation. The answer is a funny trick used as some sort of novelty for guests at a dinner party. The truth is that the action changes in every dream, but the woman stays the same, and always with the same painted face. She laughs, she sings, she cries, she fights, she loves, and she dies.

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reblog if you’re 25+ and still roleplay; or if you believe older muns have a place in the rpc and shouldn’t be told to give it up when they turn 30. 

i received this anon & i just want to make a point. 

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PAIN REMINDS YOU THE JOY YOU FELT WAS REAL

BLADE RUNNER RP | OC | REPLICANT REGISTRY: N9FAA10149

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(source)

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Please excuse our absence and extremely overdue replies..

I’ve maintained a few drafts that I owe - please like this post if we had something going and you’d like to continue, or if you’d like to start something new.

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The top …

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yeah a boyfriend sounds nice but a supreme enemy you can make out with sometimes in secret sounds a lot more hardcore

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06/12/2018

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“Midnight in Red” Jeremy Mann

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“I felt lonely and content at the same time. I believe that is a rare kind of happiness.”

— Stephen King (via purplebuddhaquotes)

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A glimpse into void..