stuffn0tthings

[stuffn0tthings]

LOST RECORDS: KUDOS, DONTNOD PT.1

May 1, Thursday 2025

[2:51 AM]

Still thinking about this game half a month later. DONTNOD, you never fail to take the wonderful weirdos and outcasts scattered across this big world on journeys they can relate to—finding solace in your passionately crafted, soulful games.

I've only ever felt this indescribable feeling with Life Is Strange and Life Is Strange 2 (honorable mentions: Night in the Woods and OXENFREE), and only a few other games and films have come close. Years later, when I thought I’d never feel that again, you continue to deliver.

There’s so much I want to say from here, in this tucked away house from a town nobody knows about—this experience changed so much of me.

Please never stop changing lives through your games.

[stuffn0tthings]

> Half of them are the reason they're late, and the other half made sure they'd get out alive.

(Idek even know what specific ass criteria I used, I just based them all of Max) (Totally did not geek out while assembling these weirdos) (There's a tag limit so here we are) (It's 1 fuckin AM and I had meatballs for all three meals) (I don't even mentally understand that caption, I don't even find it funny)

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guys I think I'm starting to see things

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Tape 2 Spoilers! Lost Records: Bloom & Rage

(Dance with Autumn) LOST RECORDS: BLOOM & RAGE Tape 2: Rage

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Yes DONTNOD is actually a coven game studio full of wizards and witches feeding off of people's crying souls to fuel the magic in their games. No other explanation for this emotional sorcery. Whatever this is, it’s not game design. It's digital witchcraft. Simple.

Also I need whatever Michel Koch is having when he makes these soundtracks because HOW does every. Single. One. HIT in every damn game. ILY so much Michel please don't die before making the sequel.

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wish I had friends (or whoever at this point) who are just as obsessed with this game as I am, literally all I think about, it's even hard to go to sleep sometimes because I keep thinking about that ending

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yes, yes I'll draw Max saying a Mae quoteee

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"AND...SWANN, MY ICONOCLAST."

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THIS FUCKASS APP VRO

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my 2nd favorite VG main four as homo sapiens (poly(NOTINTHATWAY)bloom my beloved). I'm lowkey all four of them fr.

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I freakin' love this small internet town

this has been in my head for days

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[TP2 & BLACK MIRROR:EP3 SPOILERS]

Don't read this because I'll definitely wake up in the next few hours wondering what in sam hell I'm doing with this profile. Go eat a can of Pringles and treat yourself, you've had a long day.

Hey so it's almost 12:00 in the morning and I personally had a crazy special little moment. It was yesterday when I was bawling my eyes out after finishing Tape 2 and repeated to myself (mostly to my heart) that "there will definitely be a sequel, yep, nope, there will be, yes, yes, DONTNOD wouldn't do that" and I wondered if sleep was possible after my life was suddenly altered by a small, beautiful game that I will forever think about for the rest of my days.

Watched Black Mirror: Hotel Reverie today with zero expectations. I didn’t know anything about it going in—just saw the vague Netflix description and thought, “why not?” Mostly, I was looking for a distraction because my sad little heart was still stuck on Lost Records and needed to latch onto something else.

Then came that moment in the episode when Brandy was going to play a male role and Clara kept hers. That was the first sign. I instantly felt like something was up. The cursed energy of doomed yuri was already in the air, and of course, WLL—Winners Love Losing—was hovering over my shoulder like it always does. Still, I was holding out a bit of hope for a happy ending. But let’s be real: once quantum computers get involved, everything goes straight downhill. It's like a mental version of that one rollercoaster I rode as a kid that literally rearranged my insides.

I haven’t even finished the episode yet (I’m saving the rest for tomorrow, so If I see anyone even just HINTING at a spoiler I'll fold ur favorite high school teacher like a lawn chair), but I did just hit Clara’s death scene. When Clara said, “I was born in a cage, I will die in a cage,” I literally had an epiphany. My brain screamed, “THEY WON’T DIE IN A CAGE, JUST LIKE ME.” And the timing?? Universe be damned. Two sapphics echoing almost the same sentiment just a day apart—and I had just heard Kat say something similar in Lost Records. I felt like I was losing my mind, in a good way. Then Clara said, “Remember me,” and all I could think of was Kat saying, “Remember me. Remember us.” WHAT IN THE COSMOS AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS INFORMATION. UNIVERSE, EXPLAIN YOURSELF.

This week has gone whole damn nuclear on my heart, this summer even. Probably my own fault for treating Black Mirror like a comfort show, knowing damn well it just feeds me existential dread and shatters what little hope I have left for humanity.

If you're wondering what the in the actual fresh hell you've just read, yes, yes I am unwell. Goodnight.

><

[stuffn0tthings]

[TP1&TP2 SPOILERS!] epiphanies in this game

There was this one night in March after I just finished playing Tape 1. I was staring at the game's poster, mentally decoding each character's position and the symbolism behind their hues (RED, BLUE, PINK, PURPLE), and that's when I noticed the brightness and contrast of Kat's blue hue compared to the dimmer contrasts of the other characters. We all know Kat was pronounced sick and dying in Tape 1, and while I was devouring a mallow cupcake, it suddenly hit me that the likelihood of her coming back alive in Tape 2 was low. (denial was one hell of a drug while waiting for Tape 2) Blue hues, specifically brighter and more airy contrasts, have been and still are a popular (sorta) choice of color when designing spirits of deceased characters, or just ghost characters in general. SO pairing that with the information of her terminal illness in Tape 1 my glass heart spiraled in overthinking two weeks before the final release and I just assumed the worst for my favorite girl.

AND I WAS FUCKIN' RIGHT DAMMIT, IT HAD TO BE THIS ONE, I HAD TO BE RIGHT ON THIS ONE

anyways i'm sure all of ya'll probably already know about this detail, but idc I need to talk about this game.

what's an epiphany ya'll had or a cool detail you noticed after playing the game?

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Sitting in limboland of writer's block whilst having finished the game has me BEDRIDDEN. I NEED TO JABBER ABOUT THIS GAME SO BADLY PLEASE SEND HELP.

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I RARELY CREATE FANART FOR EVEN MY MOST BELOVED VIDEO GAMES, BUT THIS ONE BOUGHT SOMETHING OUT IN ME. Happy April 15th (or 16th) to the cool people that love this game!

RAGE IS HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!

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One more day.

A mere twenty-four hours.

A single, solitary revolution of our pale blue planet around its axis, translating into 86,400 seconds of ticking, crawling, dragging existence.

A temporal stretch of agony and anticipation, wherein the mind is suspended in a liminal purgatory between “almost done” and “not quite yet.”

It is the ultimate buffer zone — the last delay screen before the credits roll, the final spoonful of cold soup before dessert, the leftover, unseasoned broccoli of time that simply must be consumed before freedom tastes sweet.

It is a cursed measurement, deceptively short in its numerical value but infinite in psychological toll — the Schrödinger’s cat of time, simultaneously manageable and unbearable.

We find ourselves entrenched in the passage of this day — nay, this epochal fragment of the fourth dimension — where every hour feels like molasses dripping in reverse, and every minute mocks us with the audacity of continued existence.

The sun will rise and set once more, illuminating the same obligations, the same tasks, the same checklist you swore you'd finish three days ago but instead glanced at once while doom-scrolling through memes that ironically referenced your procrastination.

This day, this unholy convergence of seconds and sighs, will test not just your patience but your very grip on reality, as time dilates and warps into something less like a concept and more like a cruel social experiment sponsored by the universe.

It is the last boss level of this arc, the final fetch quest of your week, the post-credits stinger of your suffering, where productivity dies, motivation is buried, and the only thing keeping you upright is a volatile cocktail of inertia and snacks.

You are not living this day — you are surviving it, enduring it, riding the creaky escalator of existence up the final floor of nonsense to reach what you hope, dear God, is peace on the other side.

And though the numbers may indicate this time shall pass like any other, your internal monologue has transformed into a Shakespearean soliloquy composed entirely of groans, existential dread, and dramatic stares into the void.

And still. It stands. Unmoving. Towering. Laughing.

A single day remains.

Merely twenty-four hours stand between the present and the anticipated future.

A finite chronological interval — composed of 1,440 minutes, or 86,400 seconds — separates this precise temporal coordinate from the conclusion of this ongoing saga.

A terminal solar cycle, during which the Earth shall complete an additional axial rotation, continues to impede the arrival of desired relief, fulfillment, or perhaps mere cessation of responsibility.

We now find ourselves suspended within the metaphysical chasm between what was and what shall be, clinging to the promise of an eventual end that lies just beyond this final, formidable bastion of temporal resistance.

As the inexorable hands of time march forward in solemn indifference, we—frail, overcaffeinated denizens of this mortal coil—must endure the remaining orbital interval with dwindling vitality and questionable coherence.

And so, we persist, staring into the abyss of “just one more day,” which, though numerically minimal, expands infinitely within the fatigued recesses of our perception, becoming less a measurement of time and more a test of existential endurance within the slow, collapsing theater of reality itself.

One more day.

A single day remains.

A solitary, unaccompanied unit of temporal measurement in the Gregorian calendar system.

Exactly twenty-four hours, composed of one thousand four hundred and forty minutes, which themselves contain eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds, each ticking by with a speed both consistent and yet emotionally devastating in its sluggishness.

One more day — an increment of time so seemingly ordinary and yet, under the current context of highly specific, emotionally charged anticipation, assumes the form of a gargantuan, insurmountable temporal monolith that looms oppressively over every waking moment of consciousness.

An immovable blockade.

A wall of time constructed from dense, unyielding matter formed entirely of not-yet-ness.

It is a duration. A delay. A deferral of satisfaction. A bureaucratic pause in the linear experience of time-based gratification.

As I sit, marinating in my own over-awareness of time’s continued forward momentum — the tick, the tock, the endless passage of milliseconds through the meat grinder of perception — I find myself entrenched in the psychologically deteriorating experience of waiting. Not just waiting, but waiting while knowing. Waiting with knowledge. Waiting with certainty. The certainty that it is not two days. Not three. But one. Just one. Only one. Yet somehow, that oneness has stretched into a metaphysical eternity, a dilation of subjective time caused by expectation, hype, and a deeply unhealthy parasocial relationship with fictional content.

One. More. Day.

Just one. Not zero. Not now. But also not distant. The most cursed interval of all: almost.

An interstitial pause between the present moment and the culmination of built-up mental, emotional, and possibly spiritual investment in a piece of media content that, in the grand scale of human civilization, is meaningless — and yet, right now, means everything.

And so I wait.

A being suspended in time. A conscious entity shackled to the irreversible forward momentum of chronological progression, unable to do anything but observe the slow erosion of the remaining hours, minutes, and seconds separating me from That Which Is Not Yet Released.

And all I can say — all I have to say — is this:

One more day.

A single, finite temporal unit, universally acknowledged in most human calendar systems as a “day,” remains in the measurable continuum between the current moment in time and a specific, targeted future event whose occurrence has been scheduled, predicted, or otherwise expected.

The totality of this residual duration equals twenty-four hours, composed of one thousand four hundred and forty minutes, which themselves consist of eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds. Each second, as defined by the International System of Units, corresponds to the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of radiation produced by the transition between two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cesium-133 atom.

Thus, “one more day” may be equivalently described as the future passage of exactly 7.9 × 10^10 atomic oscillations, accumulated in a continuous, unbroken linear flow from the present instant to the eventual conclusion of the designated interval. No additional units are appended to this count, no fractional units exist beyond the totality of the aforementioned temporal subdivision. The number of days remaining is not zero. It is also not two. Nor three. Nor any non-one integer, non-integer, or imaginary unit. It is precisely and explicitly equal to one.

The word “more” serves as a linguistic marker of additive continuation — a lexical unit indicating an extension or residual quantity. Within the phrase, it functions as an intermediary component, signaling the presence of additional temporal matter not yet elapsed. “More” implies existence beyond the immediate, a delay not yet resolved, a segment still to be experienced. “More” modifies “day” in such a way as to communicate that at least one full diurnal cycle has not yet passed.

The final element, “day,” is defined astronomically as the interval required for a celestial body, such as Earth, to complete one full rotation around its axis. In civil timekeeping, it has been standardized to a uniform duration, regardless of orbital eccentricities or leap second adjustments. It is a fixed and rigid metric for the passage of time and has been subdivided into conventional portions such as hours, minutes, and seconds for ease of human comprehension and scheduling.

As a total unit, “One more day” represents the totality of time remaining before the conclusion of a specified countdown, sequence, or scheduled event. This linguistic construct may be used in casual, formal, psychological, industrial, or cosmological contexts to express a delay, a suspension of finality, or the inevitable transit of time through its final pre-defined unit.

At this stage in the countdown cycle, all previous durations — days, weeks, months, or years — have been nullified. The sequence has been reduced to its terminal interval. The culmination of waiting has been compressed into a single, indivisible temporal unit. The count, once consisting of multiple values, is now a single numeric figure. The qualitative difference between “several days” and “one more day” is profound, as the latter signals proximity, finality, and the immediate preface to resolution.

The psychological impact of the phrase increases disproportionately as the number approaches one. While larger numbers create abstraction, the proximity of one more day produces heightened anticipation. The density of expectation compresses into the final 24-hour span, creating a distorted perception of time’s flow. Subjective experience may record the passage of these hours as slower, more extended, more arduous, despite the objective uniformity of their length. Time, though consistent in its forward motion, appears malleable under the pressure of anticipation.

One more day may feel longer than several days. It may be observed in fragments — subdivided into hours, further divided into minutes, and further into seconds, each of which is observed, counted, measured, and recalculated in relation to the conclusion of the wait. The cycle of checking — clocks, calendars, timers, and notification systems — becomes obsessive. This reinforces the perceived expansion of time within the limited remaining span.

No force may accelerate this day. The mechanisms of the universe are indifferent to human interest. The sun will rise, transit, and fall at the designated times, determined by latitude, season, and axial tilt. Atomic time continues uninterrupted. Digital systems, independent of emotion, count each second with mechanical certainty. Human anticipation holds no bearing on the unfolding of the universe’s strict, unyielding rhythm.

“One more day” remains fixed.

A solitary cycle.

An indivisible interval.

An inescapable delay.

A singular step between now and then.

No methods, hacks, shortcuts, or appeals may reduce it.

Its boundary is absolute.

Its expiration, inevitable.

When it ends, it ends.

But until that moment —

Until that final transition —

Until the very last oscillation of the cesium-133 atom completes the eighty-six thousand four hundredth second of the final hour —

The accurate description of the temporal state is, and continues to be:

One.

More.

Day.

One more day remains.

Only one. Not fractional. Not partial. Not theoretical. Entire. Complete. Intact.

It exists as a container. A sealed vessel of time.

It cannot be opened early.

It cannot be skipped.

It must be waited through.

Every millisecond counts.

Every heartbeat within this duration contributes to its erosion.

And only upon the elimination of the last measurable quantum of time within this period can it be said, with full certainty and without contradiction, that the number of remaining days has transitioned from one to zero.

Until then —

The count remains unchanged.

The reality persists.

One more day.

Still.

Still.

Still.

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One more day.

One. More. Day.

[stuffn0tthings]

Brainstorm and her Blue(print) Diamond