#Nightmare Logic

[shirtlesssammy]

Dean Winchester every day -- 291/326

Supernatural 14x05//Nightmare Logic

[bitter69uk]

“Isn’t it too dreamy?” Debuted on this night 35 years ago (8 April 1990): David Lynch’s twisted, nightmarish and hallucinatory TV soap opera Twin Peaks. To commemorate the occasion, why not drink some damn fine coffee, hug a log, tie a cherry stem into a knot using only your mouth, talk backwards and crank up the ethereal tones of Julee Cruise LOUD? Pictured: Sheryl Lee as the doomed Laura Palmer.

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Power Trip - Executioner's Tax (Swing Of The Axe)

[bizarrobrain]

"Ruination" by Power Trip - From "Nightmare Logic" (2017)

[onespncap]

s14e05 -- "Nightmare Logic"

[thehardgroove]

[wealmostaneckbeard]

what the hell is brian david gilbert saying in his newest song?

I know it's got to be funny. I know he's buried a freaky joke in there. I wish I knew what it was.

EDIT: I thought I had watched Brian's newest video to completion. Turns out I had not done that, because it actually contains the song above:

Spoiler: it is a freaky joke, he's joking about his death!

[kickerofelves]

Waiting Around to Die — Power Trip

[winchestress]

what was this for then

if this storyline for Sam would be abandoned like every other??

[scoop16]

Riley Fucking Gale Forfuckingever!!!!!!!

[bitter69uk]

Lemon Satin and Tickled Pink wine. Pigs in a blanket and chocolate pudding tarts. Tuna melts (made with onion powder and celery salt). Do these words mean anything to you?? Well, they will after you watch Robert Altman’s mind-bending and enigmatic 1977 black comedy / psychodrama 3 Women! It’s the featured presentation for this month’s Lobotomy Room film club (devoted to cinematic perversity!), Thursday 17 April at Fontaine’s bar in Dalston. Its two exceptional lead actresses, Sissy Spacek and Shelley Duvall, are of course synonymous in the popular imagination with horror movies (Carrie (1976) and The Shining (1980), respectively). Is 3 Women a horror movie? Certainly, as it progresses, it begins edging into spine-tingling psychological horror (just like Altman’s earlier masterpiece That Cold Day in the Park (1969) – which we showed way back in 2020). And what does 3 Women's ending mean? Let’s have a heated debate over cocktails on Thursday night! Reserve your seat by emailing bookings@fontaines.bar Details here.

[callmeizukunotdeku]

I was a kid with a Hunger Games hyperfixation and, from time to time, I'll get reminded of the books. With Trump's inauguration and the TikTok ban and unban, I can't stop thinking about a political tactic called panem et circenses, or bread and circuses.

In Mockingjay, Collins writes "'It’s a saying from thousands of years ago, written in a language called Latin about a place called Rome,' he explains. 'Panem et Circenses translates into "Bread and Circuses." The writer was saying that in return for full bellies and entertainment, his people had given up their political responsibilities and therefore their power.'"

In Collins' world, the Hunger Games was the entertainment. In ours, it's social media. Twitter, Meta, TikTok, are all controlled by political powers. Musk, Zuckerberg. TikTok is owned by Yiming and Rubo, but with the ban and unban, the content it shows in America is filtered to fit Trump's political agenda.

It's entertainment at the cost of information.

[crowfeatherquill]

Stress Dreams

Elijah stands on the edge of Dalry’s sunrise cliffside, staring out into the abyss of mist and nothingness below him. The terror in the back of his throat tastes familiar. He’s had this dream before. He doesn’t look behind him when he feels Valentine’s foot between his shoulder blades. He knows what happens next.

He plummets. Air rushing past him, turning his hair into stinging whips against his face and his clothing into frantic un-wings. He reaches for the board.

He reaches for the board.

The board. Is gone.

He has not had this dream before.

He flails, trying to flip himself in the air -- at least if he’s going to fall to his death, he’ll be able to see it coming -- but before he can, a massive, looming form blocks out the sun in its entirety. Early morning turns to night in an instant and above him is Emil and below him is Nothing and he is still falling and Emil is diving after him and he doesn’t have his board and the ship is nowhere to be seen and he is going to die. Emil’s throat glows incandescent blue with rage and pain and fury and lightning and Elijah does everything he can to curl into a ball -- brings his arms up to shield his face as though that’s going to do him any good and squeezes his eyes shut as he realizes he does not want to see his death before it hits him.

He doesn’t know what hits him. It’s almost certainly not a lightning bolt, because it hits him in the back as he crashes through it and he hears a racket of clattering noise. It takes him a moment to realize he’s no longer falling. Another to uncurl and open his eyes. At first, he panics, because when he does open his eyes, nothing changes. But by some freak gut instinct, he knows that this is because of darkness, not sudden blindness, and so he gropes for his torch. 

The metal cylinder is grounding in his hand as he pulls it free from his belt. When he turns it on, it makes the sound of the explosion that follows catastrophic engine failure, and he flinches so hard he drops it and sends it spinning. It illuminates the room in mad flashes -- scorched stone, ruined scaffold, rubble, and amid it all, shining severed bits of metal. A single leg. A twitching hand. A head, half caved in, eye lenses shattered before they’d gone dark.

When the beam of the torch finally comes to a stop, it lands on the horrifying figure of a mechanical torso slumped against the far wall of the foundry in a dark puddle. At first, he assumes it might be oil, but then he sees it. From the gaping nothing inside its ribcage extends a snake of vertebrae, slick with fresh gore, and he realizes the puddle is not oil, it’s blood, and the floor here is drenched in it.

It may as well be tar the way his feet feel glued to the stone underneath them.

Faintly, he sees a flicker of internal illumination behind the torso’s eyes. Feebly, it calls for its father. Elijah cannot place why exactly the voice sounds so familiar until suddenly it all comes crashing into him like a minotaur at full charge.

That’s his voice.

This thing is just like him. Young, frightened, and in over its head, wondering how it got here and what it’s meant to do now. Crying for comfort and familiarity as it bleeds out in the scorched-out ruin of a foundry it was ordered to destroy.

Before he can take a step forward, he hears a mechanical charge behind him. Feels something wrap around his neck. Gets the sudden sinking feeling that he’s about to end up exactly the way the Architects had always seen him.

Spineless.

He wakes with a start, still feeling the sudden jerk backwards as though he’d really been pulled -- though odds are he hasn’t actually moved much at all.

He sits up as best he can in the swaying canvas hammock, feeling the rough weave beneath his fingers and trying to let the motion soothe him instead of making him sick. It’s the soft glow of the main power crystal that really makes it clear where he is. He presses his mouth and chin firmly against his knees and allows himself a sharp shudder, hoping maybe it’ll shake off the specter of dread and death that seems to have sunk its claws into him.

He looks up at his shelf. At the pot full of clover and forget-me-nots. It occurs to him that he’s not sure whether they need water. That he’s not really sure how to care for anything living -- anything that doesn’t run on wires and grease and know-how. That he’s not certain he can.

He unfolds himself and reaches toward them, the way they no doubt reach for the sun. Tries to remember the way his mother used to check the plants in the back garden for distress. Drooping leaves. Dull flowers. He decides they’ll probably survive the night. He’ll ask Theo in the morning what they might need in order to last longer than that.

He settles back down into the hammock, curled around the pot, arms and chest keeping it upright and face close enough to smell the dirt and the green and the gentle scent of the flowers. The smell of the ditches where he’d ridden out the swaying feeling the first time he’d had his nose broken for running his mouth to the wrong people.

The smell of home.

[heartorbit]

catch us if you can! ☆

[kasterisk-of-the-void]

Can we talk about how Meanie is the most coherent Ena side we've heard. Can we talk about how she's ALWAYS going through something when Salesman is completely out cold for these scenarios. CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE SCENE WHERE SHE'S SCREAMING THAT SHE ISNT SAYING OR DOING ANYTHING-

[tvuniverse]

9-1-1 -> 6x10-11 // 8x15 (potential) coma dream