#pixel slogan

[homeboyyyy]

Pixel Art Adobe Illustrator 9.0 T Shirt in Black

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍.

DAY FOUR OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: artificial intelligence au + "here, you are. you tiny thing."

pairing: ai-enhanced!miguel o’hara x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, sci-fi, enemies to lovers

summary: there are codeborns and codebreakers. In this world ruled by ai and the people who want to keep it that way, codebreakers fight for freedom while the feared codeborns (ai-enchanced humans) do everything to keep the so-called 'peace'. You are one of the codebreakers, hunted by one of the most menacing codeborn yet, miguel o'hara.

word count: 3k

warnings: hunter/prey, chase kink, size kink, power imbalance, fear kink, dancing on the line of dubcon due to the power imbalance, but reader very much wants miguel, hate sex, piv, possessive!miguel, biting (it has a slight aphrodisiac effect because why not), some blood, dystopian, bondage with mechanical arms, double penetration thanks to said mechanical arms, dirty talk, degradation kink if you squint,

a/n: i don't know with this is, it kinda sorta happened and, honestly, i don't hate it.

In a city perpetually cloaked in gray, oppression is an unrelenting weight. Surveillance cameras leer from every corner, tracking your steps and every muttered word.

This city used to thrive, alive with energy. Now, it's stifled by a regime that rules with an iron fist. Holographic banners hang in the air, projecting sanitized slogans that mask the truth. Rain splashes onto pixelated cobblestones, the wet ground echoing the neon lights into your eyes. 

Heart pounding, you dart through the alleyways, every step echoing. You hear them chasing you, the CodeBorns, they were the AI-enhanced sentinels of this world. Their purpose; bring order to the intricate dark web of the city. You scoff as you run, what a load of bullshit. The sentinels are nothing more than mindless robots that have a barely working human heart—and brain—for that matter. 

Very fittingly, you’re part of a group called CodeBreakers, a group of dedicated people trying to dismantle the regime and censorship. You just recently hacked into the cinema, which might seem not like a big deal, but you just had to save those poor people from watching the same damn thing over and over again. 

Making people watch something else that wasn’t handpicked by the goverment might’ve not been a big deal, but breaking into the system certainly was, and something not everyone could do. 

“Shit,” you hiss, accidentally tripping over a loose cobblestone. “Shit shit shit—” 

The worst thing about the CodeBorns is the fact that they can do a lot that regular folk like you can’t. For example, they’re all ridiculously fast, they can see in the dark, they can hear exceptionally well, they have superhuman strength—

You hear a wall shattering behind you and heavy steps grow closer, you’re relieved when you realize it’s only one set of steps, but as you realize who those steps probably belong to, your chest caves. 

Fucking, Miguel O’Hara. 

You hear the familiar creak of mechanical limbs and the familiar sound of your name falling from his lips. Another thing about the AI-enhanced sentinels, they have body upgrades they can take off whenever they want to. 

“You can’t unrun me!” he roars. “You know you can’t!”

He’s right, you can’t run a beast of a man like him. 

You need to be smarter. 

Ducking into another alleyway, you thank whatever god is left in this world overrun by technology for the web of light the neon signs provide. You quickly spot a string of utility boxes, It’s dangerous, but you manage to squeeze yourself between them and the hard stone wall. Heat radiates from the boxes. If Miguel doesn’t lose track of you soon, the damn thing might heat up enough to burn you. 

The clatter of mechanical limbs echoes closer.

And then you see him. 

The neon light reflects off his holographic suit, its dynamic red details reminiscent of flickering pixels. He's a towering figure. Spider-like limbs protrude from his back, their gleaming metal glistening with the moisture of the rain-soaked air. They move slightly as if looking around, trying to sense her. With panic, you hold your breath, the small hairs on the back of your neck standing with attention. 

His brow is slightly furrowed, something you recognize he does when he’s either angry or annoyed—or both.  His lips, however, curve into a faint, almost menacing smile, revealing a glimmer of satisfaction in this pursuit.

The alleyway seems to shrink around you as his steps grow nearer. Your pulse quickens, synchronized with the flickering lights around you. This isn’t your first run-in with Miguel, and you doubt it will be the last. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. The fear you feel poisons you, making your stomach churn and your mouth taste of death. He’s captured you before but never actually handed you in. 

Arousal rears its head among the fear, coating you in a sheer sweat. You can’t help it. It’s a Pavlovian response at this point, you see him and your body starts leaking like a damn faucet. Miguel had captured you twice, and in both of them, you ended up with his cock deep between your legs. 

You just never know with him. He never contacted you outside of this, never acted in a way that would indicate that something had happened between you two. 

All he gave you is this, the chase, the fear, the wondering if this might be the time he throws you in a needlessly futuristic cell—

"Here, you are. You tiny thing."

Shit. 

It’s comical really; the way you look up with wide eyes as his red ones peer down at you. His smirk is non-existent, yet you can still feel his satisfaction in finding you. Your chest heaves painfully, you can move, struck with uncharacteristic fear. He might not be an animal you get the sense that he smells the horror sticking to your skin. 

You’re about to make a run for it when the mechanical arm’s sinewy grace coils around your ankles. Miguel pulls you out of your hiding place. All the blood rushes to your face as you hang upside down. 

“Dammit, Miguel!” you hiss. “Put me down!” 

He raises a sole brow elegantly, his eyes moving up and down your body, his gaze almost predatory. “Rather bold for a criminal,” he answers, voice nonchalant. The limbs tighten around your ankles, just a shy away from being painful. The arm draws you nearer, your breath mingling with his in the dewy air. “I’m starting to think you enjoy getting caught.” 

“Does it look like I have a death wish?” you ask. His lips twitch and you quickly add. “You know what, never mind, don’t answer that.” 

“What if it was one of the others who found you first? Were you going to spread your legs for them too? ” he snarls. “Is that how you’ve been getting away from hacking our systems for this long?” 

This time when the limb squeezes harder around your flesh and bone, you scream. The sound is drowned by the constant buzz of the world. “I should just take you in,” he murmurs. “Be less trouble.” 

Due to the blood gathering in your skull, you might be imagining things but you swear you saw a hint of actual worry instead of anger in those crimson eyes. But that shouldn’t be possible. Codeborns didn’t feel; sure they felt anger, but they were programmed sentinels made not to care about anyone who went into their criminal system. 

“Careful, your emotion is showing.” 

Maybe you do have a death wish, after all. 

“Bitch.” 

His sudden anger chokes the air from out of your lungs. You’re suffocated. The limb around you suddenly scorching hot, his eyes redder than normal, bright enough to match the neon raining from above. He bares his teeth at you, sharp and venomous, when he wants them to be. Miguel leans further into your personal space, his scowl deep—you begin to shake all over, your heart begging for your body to move away but you can’t. All you fear and think is fear. 

Arousal sneaks between the sinews of emotions. You taste it on your tongue, the scent of it searing as you take quick, sharp breaths. 

Miguel’s nose brushes the tender skin right under your ear, the sound of his inhale deafening “Afraid?” he rolls his tongue, his voice nothing but gravel. Before you can answer, a chuckle halts your tongue. His breath dans over your damp skin, goosebumps rising across your skin. “Or aroused? Or perhaps both?” 

You say nothing and it’s not for a lack of trying. You’re stunned into it, your tongue feeling limp and big in your mouth. The sharp edges of his teeth nip at your upside-down cheek, and despite yourself, a whimper escapes. 

“No seas tímida ahora. Where’s all that bite from before? Cat got your tongue?” you joly at the sudden feel of his warm tongue, your nipples hardening under the fabric of your shirt. “Beg for it.” again, a darkness curls around each and every word. 

This situation shouldn’t be getting you this hot and bothered. The want between your legs pulses so bad that it hurts. 

“P—Please, Miguel,” you say barely above a whisper. “I. . . I want it.” 

“Want what?” 

Fucking asshole. “Your cock. I want. . . you to fuck me.” 

His smile does nothing to quell the fear, “Good girl,” he rasps, the words echoing in your ear. 

The rest happens in a blur. 

Suddenly you’re not hovering upside down anymore, instead, you’re shoved up against the hard, cold surface of a wall, your pants being lowered for you. Now it’s your wrists that are bound and pinned above your head, your legs spread from the ankles thanks to the mechanical arms. Miguel’s large presence looms right behind you, his clothed cock flush between the crevice of your ass. 

“Let’s see how wet you are,” he coos, ripping your panties into two. You make a strangled sound of disapproval, but all he does is click his tongue. “Be grateful I didn’t shred your pants.” 

Grateful is the last thing you’re feeling as two fingers spread your folds, the middle one dipping between. Your body speaks for itself. Swiping his fingers up and down, he gatherers your slick around the digit and traces your entrance, pushing in. Your body jumps at the beach, pleasure licking the base of your spine. “So responsive,” he murmurs and you hear the familiar glitching sound of his suit. 

Then you feel the heft of his cock laying right above the curve of your ass, both his hands cradling your asscheeks. The limb around your wrists coils tighter. 

Miguel parts your cheeks, getting a better look. Your cheeks burn in response. The cool air hits your other hole and you hate the way your body clenches at the cold. His thumb traces the rim and a loud exhale of air rips from your lungs. Your legs start to shake, slick dripping down the insides of the tender flesh. 

“Gonna fuck this pretty asshole one day soon,” Miguel gloats. Experimentally,  he pushes his thumb forward, nearly knuckle deep until you start squirming. You’re dripping for him, your asshole fluttering around the digit. The mild pain only makes your pulse race. “Unfortunately for you, I can’t today.” 

You hear his smile in his voice. The smugness that is laced into his every sentence. Your breath hitches when he pulls out, a moment later the warmth of his finger is replaced with something cold and metal. 

You tense as you hear the machine whirring, the hardness of it is replaced with something rounder and softer. “M—Miguel. . . ?” 

His lips touch your ear, “Shhh, don’t worry about it, princesa, just a little something to keep you satisfied while I fuck your pretty little cunt.” 

The arm merely moves over your hole, a feather-like touch that warms your skin. When it gently prods at you, you arch your back instinctively, your ass moving up into the air. 

Miguel only chuckles, the sound dark and low, a faint slap is delivered to your ass. You yelp but he doesn’t say another word. 

He’s big. 

You have no idea if it’s just lucky genetics or due to the ai-enhancement but whatever it is; he’s well-endowed. 

He makes you feel every tantalizing inch as he pushes himself further into your cunt, your walls throbbing while adjusting to his width. Your jaw drops, mouth gaping. He presses deeper and deeper, every centimeter of your cunt claimed by him. Your knees buckle and for the first time, you’re grateful for the robotic tendrils holding you up. He growls into your neck, those same venomous fangs skimming the tenderness of your neck. You feel the sharp bite of his nails digging further into your hip. 

Towards the base, his cock thickens and your eyes roll back as he shoves the last of it deep inside you. Your breasts feel heavy, tingling with pleasure despite being untouched.

Miguel doesn’t wait, he pulls back his hips and snaps them forward. Your stomach clenches with a delightful shiver. While slamming into you, the arm that holds your wrists together starts to pull you back until your back forms the perfect art, a mild discomfort steaming at the base of your spine. The way he’s angling you above his cock coaxes sweet, load moans from you. If possible, he’s even deeper now, hitting that devastating spot you can’t seem to reach when you’re on your own. 

“You like being my little plaything?” he groans, kissing the sweaty skin between your neck and shoulder. You moan again when the rounded tip of the mechanical limb starts pushing into the tight ring. A fresh pulse of wetness soaks you and trickles down his length, leaving your body trembling. “Fuck,” thrust. “So,” thrust. “goddamn,”  thrust. “wet—” 

You attempt to say his name but all you manage is the pathetic repeat of the letter “m”. His lips curl cruelly and the tip of the arm forces itself deeper, fucking you with shallow thrusts. “Pathetic,” he spits. “You’re so fucked out that you can’t even say my name? You can’t help drooling around my cock, can’t you? This is why I think you enjoy getting caught, you tiny thing,” the hard edge of his voice softens as he drags his nose down your neck. “So pathetic.” 

When he nips at your neck for the nth time tonight, you bare yourself to him by tilting your head. You want it. Want him. You need to feel him tear into your flesh, you want to feel the sting of his bite for weeks. 

His movements slow on both ends. “It’ll hurt,” he warns. 

“I don’t care,” you choke out. “P-Please— I–I can’t—” 

You really can’t talk. Your cunt squeezes around him, begging for the hard pound of his hips. Miguel doesn’t make you say it twice. He sinks his teeth into the same pace he kissed not a moment ago, the pain is instant, the trickle of warm blood making you squeamish. He doesn’t suck, only bites, not that you ever thought he would be sucking your blood. You imagine it’s just something he enjoys doing, like a primal need. You feel the soft webs of psychedelic venom seep into your veins. Your body grows limp, your lids growing heavy, he resumes his thrust and the pleasure you feel is tenfold. 

“Oh god,” you gasp, slack-jawed. “Oh my fucking god—Miguel—” 

He pulls out his teeth, kissing the marks he made that were shiny with blood, “I know, I know,” he grinds his hips, the pleasure shooting up your spine like electricity. “The effects won’t last long.” 

His words go through one ear and out the other. However. Your body singing with pleasure and nothing else, the word around you fading into reds and pinks. 

Miguel snapped his hips hard into you, meanwhile, the limb resumed its thrusts, stretching you further with every stroke. Some part of you is reminding you that Miguel, as of right now, can see every part of you, your most intimate parts completely bare. But the soothing venom lurking in your veins whispers words of encouragement. You focus on being stretched further, your hips move in need to meet his thrusts, but having nothing to brace yourself against, you surrender and allow him to take you apart wholly. 

His grunts became louder, Miguel pushed deeper and deeper, both cocks thrusting into you at the same time. Spit dribbles from the corners of your lips. Your mind empties with slack-jawed bliss as both lengths repeatedly strike your sensitive spots, pounding you with pleasure. 

You let out a loud gasp when the limb pulls out of you suddenly and you’re left empty, Miguel’s arms wrap around you, hands sliding under your shirt to cup the heavy weight of your breasts. He presses flush against you, striking your ass, he fucks into you with short, deep thrusts. 

His fingers pinch at your hard nipples, slightly turning them, “Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “Gonna fuck myself deep inside of you so no one will dare touch you.” 

The possessive tone, the brutal pace of his thrusts, the large hands on your tits—all of it pushes you down the edge, your body going rigid before relaxing entirely. You gush around him, wet sounds echoing in the narrow alleyway as he fucks you through it, not slowing down in the slightest. 

However, you do feel the hold around your wrists recoiling along with the ones holding your ankles apart. Miguel holds you close as you fall loosely like a ragdoll, animalistic sounds are grunted into your ear, another burst of arousal awakening on your tongue. 

The tip of his tongue dances along the bite marks when he spills into you, his cock deep, just like he promised. 

There’s so much, you feel the heat of it spreading inside of you, some of it spilling around from where his cock stretches you wide. His hips twitch, his arms forcing down the grind of your hips. You let out a whimper, your head falling over his shoulder. 

The two of you remain like that until his cock begins to soften inside of you, Miguel slowly pulls out and lowers you to the ground so you can sit. He finds your pants and throws it towards your lap. 

Sadly for you, your brain registers none of that. The dumb muscle only starts working again when he stands tall in front of you, that same menacing stance returning. 

“Don’t let me catch you again,” he says, voice stern. He looks down at you as he stuffs his cock back in his pants. “If I do, I’ll have to lock you up. This was your last warning.” 

And with that, he leaves. 

A bitter laughter bubbles in your throat as the back of your head hits the hard surface of the wall. Rain begins to drizzle, the first tiny drops landing on your cheeks and sliding down to your neck. 

Among all the people you could’ve fallen for, why did it have to be him?

[tinsil]

think tiny old feminist slogan buttons but instead, little pixel arts (1st is "women need men like a fish needs a bicycle", 2nd is s.c.u.m.)

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Ryan Adamczeski at The Advocate:

The Republican Party of Colorado has called to "burn all Pride flags" in a shocking Pride Month message to its followers. The state's GOP recently sent out a campaign email that referred to LGBTQ+ people as "barbaric," "creeps," “degenerates,” "godless," "groomers," "predators," “radicals,” and “reprobates." The message also linked to a sermon from Pastor Mark Driscoll, which proclaimed in the video thumbnail "God hates flags," wordplay on a popular conservative slogan that uses a derogatory slur. "The month of June has arrived and, once again, the godless groomers in our society want to attack what is decent, holy, and righteous so they can ultimately harm our children," the email stated, via Denver journalist Kyle Clark.

The email then referred to gender-affirming care as "barbaric medical procedures" and falsely claimed the treatment is "irreversible." While surgical procedures — which are rarely, if ever, performed on minors — are permanent, puberty blockers and many side effects of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) are reversible. "These degenerates want to violate our children and their innocence," the message continued. After Clark posted the emails to social media, the official account for the Colorado GOP responded with a gif fire of pixelated fire and the message: "Burn all #pride flags this June."

The Colorado Republican Party has recently ramped up its hateful attacks against the LGBTQ+ community, as its latest emailer featured a link to a sermon from right-wing extremist “pastor” Mark Driscoll attacking the LGBTQ+ community, falsely characterized gender-affirming care as “barbaric”, and posted a “burn all pride flags” message on X after KUSA reporter Kyle Clark called them out on it.

See Also:

LGBTQ Nation: State GOP tells people to “burn all Pride flags” during June

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

The Republican Party of Colorado has called to "burn all Pride flags" in a shocking Pride Month message to its followers.

The state's GOP recently sent out a campaign email that referred to LGBTQ+ people as "barbaric," "creeps," “degenerates,” "godless," "groomers," "predators," “radicals,” and “reprobates." The message also linked to a sermon from Pastor Mark Driscoll, which proclaimed in the video thumbnail "God hates flags," wordplay on a popular conservative slogan that uses a derogatory slur.

"The month of June has arrived and, once again, the godless groomers in our society want to attack what is decent, holy, and righteous so they can ultimately harm our children," the email stated, via Denver journalist Kyle Clark.

The email then referred to gender-affirming care as "barbaric medical procedures" and falsely claimed the treatment is "irreversible." While surgical procedures — which are rarely, if ever, performed on minors — are permanent, puberty blockers and many side effects of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) are reversible.

"These degenerates want to violate our children and their innocence," the message continued.

After Clark posted the emails to social media, the official account for the Colorado GOP responded with a gif of pixelated fire and the message: "Burn all #pride flags this June."

The email is not the first viciously anti-LGBTQ+ message to appear in Colorado Republicans' inboxes — the party sent out another email just two weeks ago that called for parents in the state to take their kids out of public schools because Democrats are trying “to turn more kids trans.”

The May message referred to transgender identity as a "fetish" and "disturbing behavior which should be treated rather then [sic] encouraged." It also claimed that using a person’s pronouns does “not make any sense and causes gender confusion.”

[mewo-cressei]

Welp, I dug my own grave, I suppose.

@julieisasimp @the-arcade-doctor @a-moths-privacy

uhhh idk who else to tag

Note's:

Y/N is a freak. Think what you will.

and stutters, but not in a "i-i-i-im so sorry! I-i-i-i-it won't happen again!" type of way but more of a "i-im sorry! It w-wont happen again!" Type of way.

JOTA is more flirtatious. NOT IN A "you're so cute i could eat you up" type of way but more like "you're mine. Got it?~" type of way (I'M SORRY IM UNSURE HOW TO WRITE HIM I'VE NEVER WRITTEN BEFORE WAAAA-)

(Also this is very suggestive 😳)

The arcade doctor x abused run away reader

TW's: abusive parents, running away from home

Your mother had yelled at you, once again.

She never heard what you had to say, never even turned her head when you told her that your brother snuck out again.

she always favored him over you, making you clean dishes, cook dinner and have the highest grades.

Even if you got a mere A- she'd yell at you. Yet, your brother, who never got a grade above C-, never got punished in his life.

So, you decided to run away.

You've been planning this for weeks.

Your plan was to leave to go "hang out with friends" because she'd let you if you did everything she asked you to, on top of getting an A+ on every assignment you had that week.

You only took your water bottle and phone, seeing as she would yell at you if she noticed your backpack looked "stuffed full of condoms/alcohol/cigarettes". you never understood her logic.

You approach the exit, before telling her:

"mom! I'm gonna go hang out with my friends!"

You then hear your chainsmoker-mother's hoarse voice yell back:

"you actually have friends?!"

She laughed.

"Alright, fine, but only today. No more going out for the rest of the month, got it?! And be back BEFORE 5."

But you knew you wouldn't be back. You yell back, making sure not to be too loud, as she'd take it as 'disrespectful':

"alright, bye, mom"

And then you leave.

And you ran. And ran. You ran for so long, you had no idea where you were. Your mom never let you go so far away from the house, and yet...

This place felt more like home than anywhere else.

And then...

You fell... Through the ground?

This can't be right, can it?

You felt... Pixel-y? Glitchy? You felt... Unnatural.

EVERYTHING felt unnatural.

...and then you saw.. violet skies?

'What is this place?'

You thought to yourself.

Then, the violet ended.

You saw many places flash before your eyes, as well as your life, you saw a pumpkin patch, a graveyard, a circus tent, (continue) ... and then everything got so blurry you couldn't even make out colors.

you felt like you were falling for eternity, and then..

you fell right onto your back.

Your entire body had no sensation for a few moments, possibly from the adrenaline rush, and when you did get it back, everything hurt.

It was dull, not sharp at all, But it hurt like hell.

Your mind was foggy from all of the pain.

But you could conjure up one thought as you were recovering:

'Good thing I'm used to it, since I was beat by my mother. At least that's an up side.'

You knew it wasn't a good thing at all, but you had to view things in a positive light, considering your circumstances.

You didn't know how you were still even alive, but thanked whatever deity or guardian angel saved you.

After what felt like hours, the pain was finally gone.

You tried to get up, and it worked! You once again thanked whatever deity or guardian angel saved you from breaking all your bones.

Your entire body hurt though.

It was less then before, but it still lingered.

You then looked around, and to your right you saw...

'An... Arcade? Here?!'

You thought to yourself, not believing you eyes, rubbing them.

You read the sign above the door...

'JOTAS ARCADE where fun spreads like the plague'

'...what a strange name for someone...'

You thought

'Surely it's just a mascot, and isn't real... right?'

The slogan seemed fitting, though, seeing as the mascot looks like a plague doctor.

You decide to come inside...

The first thing you notice is....

Everything is an eye-gouging neon green. Your head hurt from it.

You close your eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the pain, putting your hands over them.

You then hear a voice..

"[ J:\\ WELCOME TO JOTA'S ARCADE, WHERE FUN SPREADS LIKE THE PLAGUE! ...CAN I HELP YOU? ]"

You're surprised that there's anyone even here, from the glimpses you could catch of the place, it looked run down, wires hanging from the ceiling, something goo-like on the walls, arcade cabinets with no buttons...

"[ J:\\ EXCUSE ME? ARE YOU JUST GONNA STAND THERE? ]

you then reply with:

"J-just give me a second.. my head hurts..."

You make sure the last part is silent, stumbling over your words a little from the confusion.

You then notice you've finally acclimated to the neon greens of the arcade, realizing only after opening your eyes and not feeling any pain.

You take away your hands from your eyes, looking around, noticing the voice you had heard came from a plague doctor behind the prize counter, he looked just like who you had seen on the sign, assuming that was 'JOTA'

He was a green so neon, he was almost glowing... Wait, was he?

'...it could be weirder. at least I'm okay...'

You think, thankful you're even alive.

You see the plague doctor was now speaking to a hooded figure...

You decide to not think about that, and investigate the arcade cabinet which you had seen, walking over to it.

'surely I'm just seeing things, right?'

You think to yourself.

After You had come over to the arcade cabinet, you then see your eyes hadn't deceived you, it really had no buttons.

'thats... Why would an arcade not have any buttons? How would you even play...'

You cut yourself off, trying to stop yourself from panicking.

'...this isn't the weirdest thing I had seen, it could be worse.'

You look back, seeing the plague doctor was still speaking to the hooded figure, you now notice that the figure had eyes nearly glowing green, though, you wouldn't be surprised if they really did.

and then, you finally noticed.. the plague doctor.. his right arm seemed... Off.

It was.. corrupted? You just decided to ignore it, this was already more abnormal than you'd like it to be, so it's probably better to just ignore it.

You decided to walk around, look for any sign of someone else who understood what's happening..

yet all you found were corpses.

Your mom had forced you to witness horrible things in movies, so you were mostly unbothered.

But still afraid of the idea of someone being able to hurt you.

After you had seen that nobody, well, living was here, except for that hooded figure and the plague doctor, you decide to ask one of them.

You look back, noticing the hooded figure walk away.

You decide to ask the plague doctor what was happening.

'his name was JOTA, right?'

You were quite forgetful, so you weren't sure of yourself.

You walked over to the prize counter, repeating what you going to say over and over in your head, not wanting to mess up.

Once you get there, you had finally conjured up the courage to speak.

"u-um excuse me, your n-name is 'JOTA' right?"

"[ J:\\ THE ONE AND ONLY! ]"

"I uhm.. w-where exactly a-am I? I-I mean I know I'm in your arcade! I'm just... Lost.."

"[ J:\\ LOST? SO, YOU MEAN TO SAY YOU GOT HERE ON ACCIDENT? ]"

"Y-yes.."

"[ J:\\ WELL, YOU'RE OUT OF LUCK. ]"

"w-..what?!"

"[ J:\\ THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO, KID! I'D RECOMMEND GETTING USED TO SEEING GREEN! ]"

You sigh, and start walking away, thinking.

'at least it's better than before..'

"[ J:\\ HOLD ON. ]"

you stop dead in your tracks, turning around, and walking back to the prize counter.

"[ J:\\ HOW ABOUT A DEAL? YOU HELP ME AROUND THE ARCADE, AND I KEEP YOU ALIVE. ]"

He reaches out his right hand, seemingly grinning, though you couldn't tell if he was actually grinning, because of the mask, you could hear it in his voice.

"[ J:\\ WHAT DO YOU SAY, KID? ]"

You hesitate, knowing you might be making a bad decision, but you've seen the corpses, and have no other choices.

You shake his hand.

"d-deal.."

You say, hesitantly.

"[ J:\\ JEHEHE! ANOTHER ONE TO THE SLAUGHTER~ ]"

You shudder. It was frightening, but the way he said that last part made you a little giddy.

He let's go, you immediately retract your hand.

"[ J:\\ SO, WHAT'S YOUR NAME? ]"

"m-my name is Y/N.."

"[ J:\\ WHAT A GREAT NAME FOR MY NEW LITTLE PUPPET~ ]"

You blushed.

He left the prize counter, walking over to you... But he didn't stop once he was in front of you. You walked backwards, him backing you into a wall. He pinned you against it.

You were afraid, but very flustered.

"[ J:\\ WELL, AREN'T YOU CUTE FOR A TOY~ ]"

He said, cupping your chin with his clawed hand, inspecting his new doll.

He then let go, running his claws against your neck roughly. It hadn't drawn blood, it just hurt. but.. it felt good. It made you let out a breathy sigh.

"[ J:\\ JEHE~ SUCH A SUBMISSIVE LITTLE PLAYTHING~ ]"

He said, a flirtatious lace in his voice.

[ J:\\ NOW, HOW ABOUT WE RAISE THE STAKES A BIT, DEAR?~ YOU COULD EITHER PUT ON A "SHOW" FOR ME HERE AND NOW, OOOR YOU COME BACK TO MY OFFICE, AT THE COST OF YOU WALKING PROPERLY FOR A FEW WEEKS~ ]

He said, making sure you heard the last part.

You were sure that you would've blushed harder by now, if you could.

"I-I uh pick the latter"

You said, unable to stop yourself from saying that.

"[ J:\\ GOOD~ ]"

He said, before picking you up and carrying you to his office. You were a flustered mess.

Once you two were in his office, he set you down onto his desk, putting his hands on either side of you, pinning you against it.

Then... I'll leave it up to your imagination -v•

(basically, I CANT WRITE EROTICA YOU DO IT)

[ts4-tzimisce]

no download links because I'm busy and unconfident right now, but take a closer look at a few of the vtm shirts I made! two packages; a 2-dot flaw shirt with most of the 2-dot flaws (13 swatches), and a diablerie slogans/labels shirt (7 swatches).

first time using gimp (<- lifelong MSPaint pixel artist), first time making cc, slightly shitty but that's okay. I just wanted some funny shirts.

[trashprinceward]

Hi, I plan on makkng faith embroidery on shirt or hoodie? Is it ok if I ask for your insight? I was thinking of making John from either cutscene or something like I put stud in bible study.

Pfft, that is a very good slogan. I always find things like that funnier when it's just the pixel sprite John.

Also I saw this slogan and it made me think of John.

[beevean]

Nfcv try to not shit on the entire medium of pixel art, specially the widely recognized breathtaking and stunning castlevania sprites and backgrounds, to elevate your mid designs challenge: impossible

These showrunners need some self esteem urgently goodness gracious

It's not the showrunners, it's the fans on Reddit 😂 at least that.

(but yeah @ that guy who snarked about muh pixels: bro did you forget how massively influential and iconic sotn is to this day. the absolute bruh)

I was complaining about how they just couldn't help themselves. Okay, the show has to work on a budget so they had to simplify Kojima's incredibly detailed designes. They did it with Hector (pretty well), Dracula (mediocrely) and Alucard (beyond poorly). That's fair. But no, they just have to say "well, it's an adaptation, they don't have to be 1:1, the games are silly and the show is serious huehuehue 🤪"

They ask "why should the adaptation be the same as the games?"

I ask "why does the adaptation have to change perfectly fine elements?"

They didn't even do a coherent job! You go from Alucard, Hector and Maria who are nearly identical to their game counterpart, to Isaac, Annette and Carmilla who are basically OCs! It doesn't even make sense for Hector and Maria to look like that in the show, Hector is not a fighter and Maria bleating revolutionary slogans while looking like a noblewoman is silly! And as Spinning and I said, the show forgot to be "serious" with BDSM Vampire and Sun Thundercat!

I'm not asking for a fucking pixel animation, I'm asking to use some logic and be a little more respectful.

[geckobrains]

My dealer: got some straight gas 🔥😛 this strain is called “content nausea” 😳 you’ll be zonked out of your gourd 💯

Me: yeah whatever. I don’t feel shit.

5 minutes later: dude i swear im under some spell. and do my thoughts belong to me? or just some slogan i ingested to save time? this night is missing people. the sea, it had no one, hardly no one. it had shapes, it had light. some were flashing, most moved. me? i couldn't look away. but still, no one came or left, they just stayed. but they weren't there in the first place. overpopulated by nothing. crowded by a sparseness, guided by darkness. too much, not enough. content, that's what you call it. an infant screaming in every room in your gut. bets strum on intention but best left unattended. how gathered the pixels in the dust of the digital age to our being. with what do i wash? put on some music. my friend walks the same path every day. steep the stairwell, cognizance to coma, ignoring the best he can an inconvenient reality. the consequential chore that unfolds in the naked sprint from screen to screen. scrolling binary ghettos for escape, for reminders. and this would be a good year to free poets from the back padding dungeons of content and comments. to free artists from empty and vulgar broadcasting ritual. for this year it became harder to be tender, harder and harder to remember. meeting a friend, writing a letter. being lost, antique ritual. all lost to the ceremony of progress. like the sensual organs removed. they're only weighing you down, you didn't need them. ignore this part it's an advertisement. these people are famous, i'd trust them. protesters stayed home this time. some enlisted, some never heard the first shots.

My friend: i'm a bonfire of human bones

[mjsavocados]

SHORT STORY: AWAKE

Wrote my first short story. Hope you like it. If you don't, that's ok, but please be gentle 😅

1

The man bathed in the warm electric glow of the cascading pixels. They rained down alongside icy droplets while the flurry of overzealous sales pitches fought for his attention. Holographic images shouted catchy slogans and flashed bright neon colors that went unnoticed by the commuters, who parted like water around a solitary figure in a blue jacket. He stood under the evening rain, filtering out the noise from the advertisements hanging above tall skyscrapers until he could hear only one. 

“— the sleeping pod induces a transient state, mirroring an organic form of sleep, giving you eight hours of uninterrupted rest and the possibility to experience dreams.”

“Dreams,” the word rippled through his mind, drowning out the ache in his back like a temporary pain reliever. He had heard of this archaic custom from his late parents. A story passed down to all children. A fairy tale of a restful place where your mind could wander aimlessly. But he never experienced the sensation himself. No one has anymore — not since the introduction of chips that alleviated the reliance on this time-consuming bodily function, expanding human wakefulness to a full 24 hours.

“Dreams,” the word continued to burrow into his mind as the advertisement looped to the beginning.

He activated the chip firmly planted in his skull to check his account balance and compared the small number to the hefty price tag above. Expensive, but possible with a few more shifts and sacrifices.

The hopeful thought kept him warm as he peeled his trembling body from the flashy slogans and joined the rest of the hurried commuters on the way to the station. On his journey home, the man counted and recounted his balances and expenses, checking and rechecking how long it would take to save up for the sleeping pod. The numbers ran around in circles, hitting zeroes much faster than anticipated, leaving his account too quickly to grasp. Yet the man remained hopeful as the thought fell into a loop, repeating the words over and over: “Expensive but possible. Expensive but possible.”

The metal box of a train shook the listless commuters as it whizzed through the streets, exchanging bright city lights for dim, grid-like neighborhoods that spiraled out for miles. His fellow commuters counted and recounted their own balances as lights ran across their eyes, sending signals to and from the chip, completing and extending payment plans to meet their unmeetable goals.

They were all afraid to end up past the outskirts with the rest of the despondent masses forced out of the city every time the quarterly rent increases took effect. They all tried to grasp an expensive dream of their own, all swallowing the bitter pill of failure when they couldn’t make it come true.

The man hadn’t accounted for the quarterly increases in his calculations. Unlike the years before, when he diligently prepared for the oncoming financial woes, he didn’t have the luxury of worrying about housing anymore. This year was different.

The passengers scattered like ants at their destination, keeping their heads low as they avoided the police bots, nagging vendors, and desperate beggars. Despite the late hours, the streets were buzzing as more and more passengers embarked and disembarked from the train, all coming and going to and from their third, fourth, or even fifth shifts.

Their exhausted faces fell into the background as the man walked home. He tuned out the noise, dialing down the connection between his hearing and the chip, and turned up the visors around his eyes so he didn’t have to see the accumulating street trash left to rot in the alleys. All he wanted was to hide in the comforting loop that repeated over and over: “Expensive, but possible. Expensive, but possible.”

“She’s still on the floor,” a voice interrupted his spiral.

Without realizing it, the man had entered his crumbling apartment building, took the shaky elevator upstairs, and arrived in a dusty hallway where his neighbor now peered from her apartment. She was a stocky woman with a gravelly voice and a blank expression, whose unblinking eyes made him uneasy.

“She’s still on the floor,” the neighbor repeated.

“Oh,” the man needed a moment to understand as he turned up his hearing. “Thank you for checking.”

The neighbor waited while the man fiddled with his keys, his hands shaking more than usual, then opened the apartment door and disappeared inside.

“Stress,” the neighbor explained away his demeanor and shuffled away after he was gone.

Inside his unit, the man pressed his ear against the door, listening to the quiet stillness on the other side, satisfied to be left alone. A whisper trickled in from the main room, followed by a dim light from the holographic television, making itself known to the late arrival.

The man quietly pushed off his shoes and walked across the cold, tiled floor into the living area. It was a small space with a narrow bed, barely large enough for two, a kitchenette overflowing with used dishes, and a sprawling window staring out at the bleak sunrise, illuminating the lifeless neighborhood below.

“Hi,” the man spoke softly so as not to frighten her. “I missed the early train.”

His wife lay on the floor, unaware of his presence, watching a loop of infomercials on the holographic screen, selling overpriced items to anyone with a few cents to spare. The pixels reflected in her eyes as she blinked, sluggishly raising and lowering her eyelids. She wasn’t listening to the sales pitches or admiring the enticing images, just passively staring in their general direction, completely unaware when her husband left or returned.

“I’m tired,” she muttered in a quiet voice that sounded agonizing coming from her exhausted lips.

The man quickly shed his jacket and lay next to her. “I found something that can help,” he said, restraining his sorrow. “Just wait a little longer.”

“I’m tired,” she pushed out the words. It was all she could muster after the microchip malfunction that stifled her senses. A tragic accident had left her with an infected scar that had grown from a soft pink to dark red and then to a deep purple.

“The doctor said you have to try to move,” the man swallowed a tear.

“I’m tired,” his wife repeated.

Before the man could say anything else, a notification rushed across his eyes, displaying a notice of a successful deposit for his last shift. He watched the account balance rise with glee, feeling more hopeful than ever about the possibility of reaching his goal. A second notification followed for an immediate withdrawal. The numbers depleted, taking more than the deposit brought in and ripped away his hope with it.

“Thank you for your payment,” a chipper voice spoke in his ears.

“Fuck,” the man jumped to his feet. He hadn’t accounted for the outstanding medical bills from his wife’s hospital visit two weeks ago. A simple checkup cost more than the month’s rent and changed nothing. He had to take out a loan for the medication, but that hadn’t worked either.

He felt the anger boil up inside him — a feeling of rage over the cruel injustice, a feeling of hopelessness since there was nothing he could do except watch his beloved slowly wither before his eyes.

“You can request a new chip,” the doctor had told him. But the price was more than double his yearly salary and impossible to save for. “Try to make her more comfortable then,” the doctor added. “Until you save enough.”

The man angrily kicked his work bag as those memories came flooding back. What use were those doctors if they couldn’t help her? What use was the chip if it was killing her?

“Expensive but possible,” the man tried to burrow into the hopeful thought. “Expensive but possible.”

But the more he repeated it, the more hope slipped away, drowning in a sea of despair and pulling him down with it.

“She’s getting worse,” the man thought.

His heart sped up, pummeling against the rib cage as he tried to catch his runaway breath.

“The sleep machine,” he thought. “She needs it.”

A new notification pinged in his ears, interrupting.

“You free for a gig?” a colleague's prerecorded message rushed through.

The wave of anger subsided as the hopeful thought returned, “Expensive but possible. Expensive but possible.”

“What’s the gig?” the man commanded his chip to respond.

2

“Session complete,” the soothing voice alerted as the transparent screen slowly rose, releasing Charlotte from its cocoon. 

She frowned, blinking her eyes open, unsure if there was a session at all. But the sleeping pod indicated eight hours of rest despite Charlotte’s dissatisfaction.

“Still no dreams,” she thought, swallowing the disappointment as she climbed out of the chamber.

Charlotte’s been using the sleeping pod for two weeks and still no dreams. The manufacturer assured her the results vary person by person, and it was possible she did experience dreams, but didn’t remember them.

“Then what’s the point?” she snapped at the voice programmed to help her.

Charlotte often enjoyed berating the AI systems that took her complaints, determined to make them feel her frustration by talking over them when they tried to provide a solution and raising her voice when they calmly offered a fix.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” she wondered, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror that morning. “Maybe there’s something wrong with the sleeping pod,” another thought overtook with vigor.

“Good morning, Charlotte,” a soothing voice emanated from the walls. “You have three appointments today.”

While the AI assistant read out a list of frivolous tasks and preselected functions for the day, Charlotte counted her flaws in the mirror, nitpicking herself apart as she did every morning. She focused in on the sleepy reflection, trying to decipher the reason for her continued failures, thinking up new bedtime routines to try and new complaints to raise when those failed.

Her high-rise, floor-through apartment accumulated trinkets of all shapes and sizes designed to enhance her mind and appearance, always striving for out-of-reach perfection, always falling short of her expectations and then collecting dust in the corners as new, more expensive toys came to replace them. The sleeping pod was the latest arrival and had already failed to bring its consumer the joy and relief the advertisement promised.

Charlotte was so captivated by her morning routine, mentally noting every one of her imperfections and inventing defects to fix, that it took her a moment to notice the strange repetitions. The AI assistant had fallen into a loop, saying the same syllables over and over, caught in a painful cycle that jolted Charlotte out of her concentration and into a discomforting confusion.

“Machine!” the young woman shouted for help.

A boxy house bot rolled into the room. Its rectangular shape stared at its mistress, waiting to be addressed.

“What’s wrong with it?” Charlotte snapped.

“There appears to be a malfunction,” the bot paused. “I’ve contacted the manufacturer. Repairs will be done this afternoon.”

Charlotte had never encountered a malfunction. Any repairs were done without her knowledge or inconvenience, and until today, she was blissfully unaware that her everyday helpers ever required upkeep.

This unplanned interruption threw a wrench in her daily routine, leaving the young woman without a guide to direct her every movement. It was a novel sensation to be left to her own devices, and she had no idea what to do with this newfound power.

For a moment, Charlotte considered leaving the safety of her home and venturing down to the streets below unsupervised. But as she conversed with the thought, trying to strike a plan of escape, the young woman realized she didn’t know how to get down from the highest floor without instruction, let alone how to make it back up. So, she released the idea and decided to spend the day aimlessly wandering from room to room, determined to find some entertainment.

Time ran slowly as the house bot carried on with its scheduled tasks while Charlotte rediscovered forgotten objects tucked away for safekeeping, flipped through the collection of paper books she thought were decorations, and admired the breathtaking view of the city below.

She wondered about the people on the streets, their pre-ordained destinations, overbearing AI assistants, and the rules that guided their everyday lives. She wondered if they, too, had their schedules meticulously combed through and approved, and if the people they worked for or with went through the same painstaking checking process that isolated her from others.

Charlotte was not permitted to go out alone or speak to anyone unapproved by the AI system outside her family. She infrequently received messages from her father and brother, who were too busy to visit and had locked her up in this beautiful home for her own safety, as they often said.

“Could I visit you?” she pleaded with them just to be dismissed with a promise that someday they would make arrangements they never did. “Could you come visit me?” she would ask, only to be appeased by more hopeful lies and expensive presents.

She watched the blinking city lights, reminiscing about her lonely childhood that led to an even lonelier adulthood, and wondered what life could be like if she ever made it down from her tower.

But Charlotte’s focus broke as the house bot rushed past, heading for the back door. She peeled her eyes from the window, releasing the painful memories, and diverted her attention to the seldom-used entry. “That’s where the visitors come to,” she thought as the bot welcomed a stranger.

Charlotte had never seen or spoken to a visitor, typically delivery bots or people, always directed away from unauthorized machines or humans whenever they came by. But not today. Today, there was no one pulling her away. Today, she would speak with whomever she pleased.

“Hello,” Charlotte said instinctively, when she saw the man standing in the doorway. He wasn’t much older, but the pair of sad, sunken eyes and the heavy lines on his forehead added a decade to his life.

His wet blue jacket dripped on the polished floor, sending the house bot into a frenzy. He looked uncomfortable in Charlotte’s presence despite the warm smile she practiced in the mirror for years, hoping to someday model the welcoming gesture to her distant family.

“Hello,” the man replied, trying to force the corners of his mouth to mirror Charlotte. But the facial expression didn’t come naturally, and since he was out of practice, the smile looked more like a painful wince than a sign of contentment.

Charlotte looked strange to him with her unnaturally smooth skin and shiny hair, resembling AI models from magazine covers and pixelated advertisements. For a moment, he fought the idea that she could be a humanoid, a shiny new invention meant to mimic a woman’s appearance. But the unexpected desperation in her eyes dispelled any doubt. She was a person like him, and he could sense her sadness despite the nice clothes and expensive home.

“Please come this way,” the house bot interjected after cleaning the droplets off the ground. The man nodded and followed it to a narrow closet that housed the AI server unit.

Charlotte watched as he laid out his tools and made the repairs to burned wires, swiftly connecting and reconnecting the pathways, and programming and reprogramming those connections with ease.

Charlotte had never seen the server unit and felt enthralled by the complex process that came so easily to this skilled worker. She felt jealous of his talents, comparing her lack of knowledge and expertise to his and realizing she knew nothing about the inner workings of the machines making all her life decisions.

“How did you learn this?” Charlotte’s timid voice inched into the man’s ears.

He looked up, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t used to talking to his clients directly, often coming and going without his presence known to anyone except the metallic helpers that ran the home on behalf of their owners.

The house bot idled by like a chaperone, subtly moving its mechanisms every time its mistress spoke. The young woman noticed the man’s glance and kicked the helper to leave them be. In response, the house bot squeaked and scattered away while Charlotte spread her smile even further.

“Don’t mind it,” she said, hoping to put her guest at ease.

With no house bot in sight, the man sat up, brushed off the dust to make himself presentable, and searched for the right words.

“School,” was all he could muster in response to the question.

“Oh,” Charlotte blushed, feeling stupid for asking.

She smiled and nodded, holding back other questions, fearing she sounded foolish.  After all, she didn’t really know what to ask.

“You have a nice home,” the man forced out a compliment.

Again, Charlotte smiled and nodded, even if she didn’t agree.

Within a few seconds, the servers lit up, and the AI assistant assumed control of the house. Charlotte felt disappointment burn her stomach. While she spent the day paralyzed by the not knowing, she had hoped that a few more moments of solitude could give her enough time and confidence to make a new friend, and perhaps even devise a plan of escape. But all that potential came crashing down when she heard the words, “Hello, Charlotte.”

The soothing voice rushed from the walls, callously shattering Charlotte’s hope. Her smile withered, leaving her with a debilitating sadness she could no longer hold back.

“Are you alright?” the man asked, catching her reaction.

“Repairs are complete and the payment has been transferred. Please make your way to the back door,” the AI assistant commanded.

The man packed up his tools, haphazardly putting everything away before he was told again. He knew better than to aggravate the machine or overstay his welcome, so he jumped up and rushed for the door. But on his way there, just about halfway down the hallway, something strange caught his attention.

Charlotte watched him freeze up in shock and slowly moved closer, following his gaze across the room to the sleeping pod.

“Do you have one?” Charlotte asked meekly.

The sleeping pod looked smaller than he expected, with a transparent, sleek outer shell around a flatbed for the user.

“No,” the man released the words and turned to Charlotte. “Have you used it?”

“Yes,” Charlotte lit up at the opportunity for a real conversation. “I use it every night. I haven’t had a —”

“No unauthorized users are allowed on this floor,” the AI assistant interjected. “Please proceed to the back door immediately.”

The man glanced one more time at his dream in the distance, nodded at Charlotte, and exited the same way he entered within seconds.

Charlotte watched the house bot rush by and lock the door behind him, listening to the slam echo through her vast, empty home. Suddenly, a rush of loneliness hit her, and for the first time in years, Charlotte couldn’t hold it back any longer. Her legs gave in, and she dropped to the ground as tears streamed down her face.

The nervous house bot whirled and squeaked as it circled the young woman, unsure what to do.

“Are you alright, Charlotte?” the AI assistant asked.

But Charlotte couldn’t respond. Her throat closed up, and the pain of her solitude was too much to bear. She felt a searing hatred for the AI assistant, a violent desire to run into the server room, pull out its wires, and punish it for turning away the only real person she had spoken to in years. She pictured a raging fire spreading through its routers and switches, melting away its panels and cables before finally turning the whole unit into ash. But before Charlotte could muster the courage to raise a hand against her captor, the server door locked closed, separating Charlotte from her dream.

3

The elevator doors screeched open, releasing the man onto the floor of his apartment building. His exhausted eyes bore the stress of a full day’s work. In the distance, he heard a commotion, the thuds, and groans of a family packing up their belongings, the restrained murmurs of a frazzled couple struggling to make sense of their situation.

In the days leading up to the quarterly rent increases, some residents chose to prepare in advance when their finances could no longer meet the living requirements. To avoid the humiliation of an auto-lock on the door for non-payment, they would leave a day early to preserve some semblance of dignity.

As the man shuffled down the hallway, he debated whether to offer a comforting word or a helping hand. Since the day he moved in, he kept to himself, avoiding friendships and confrontations with his neighbors, setting an invisible wall he never crossed. But since his wife’s illness, he contemplated that decision and longed for a friend to share his troubles, for someone to help bear the weight of his loneliness as he went through the motions, slowly heading for the inevitable. But the longer the man contemplated, the more he decided to stay out of the way, leaving the residents to tend to their troubles. After all, he expected to join them on the outskirts soon enough.

“She left,” a raspy voice interrupted.

The man turned to see his stocky-framed neighbor standing in her doorway with the usual stoic expression.

“She left,” the neighbor repeated.

“What?”

“Your wife,” she continued. “She left a little while ago.”

Within seconds, the man was inside his apartment, blood thumping in his ears while his eyes swept over every surface, and the holographic TV played a loop of infomercials to an audience of none. A cold sweat soaked his clothes, and his mind raced with questions: “Where could she have gone? How did she walk? Did she get better? Was she out looking for me?”

The absence of his wife rendered the apartment lifeless and empty. Suddenly, he became acutely aware of the air funneling through the vents, the footsteps of the neighbors above, and the scattering of critters in the walls. The warmth of her presence had dissipated, replaced by a bitter cold that pierced his skin. And for a moment, he feared this aching would never end.

“You should look for her,” the neighbor’s monotone voice inched closer. “She couldn’t have gone far.”

Within seconds, the man brushed past the stoic woman and sprinted into the hallway. Exhaustion and pain dropped from his mind as he charged down the stairs and out into the cold, wet night. With no one else in sight and no direction to follow, the man let his feet guide him along a familiar path to the train station.

His heightened senses scanned every inch of his surroundings, noting every crack he ever overstepped, finding novelty in the familiar streets and buildings. The colors pulsated in the darkness, screaming for his attention as his eyes jumped from light to light. He was drawn to the face of every stranger, silently begging to find his wife’s familiar eyes instead of a disheveled commuter. It wasn’t her. Each time, it wasn’t her.

The man arrived at the train station as the shifts changed. The bots were sweeping, and new vendors were setting up, demanding the man to make a purchase as he slithered through the crowd. A train had just left, and the platform emptied, revealing a solitary figure sitting on a bench. There she was.

“I’m tired,” the wife said as the man approached.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak as his knees buckled, and he fell into the seat next to her.

“I’m tired,” the wife repeated while the man quietly sobbed, burying his face in her lap. He felt a sense of relief coupled with intense worry that he couldn’t reconcile. He couldn’t understand how she had gotten to and from their home and let in a slither of hope he’d soon regret.

“It’s not unusual,” the doctor said when the man called. “This can happen in the last stages of degradation. The chip can no longer synchronize with the neural pathways, and this gives the brain an illusion of temporary control of the body,” the doctor took a long pause before nailing in the coffin. “However, this means that the chip can permanently fail at any moment and trigger a fatal aneurysm.”

The words burned through his mind like wildfire. His wife would soon die, and there was nothing he could do to save her. Nothing he could do to ease her last moments of suffering.

Memories of their life together flashed before his eyes as he desperately searched for a solution. They didn’t ask for the chip, and yet they were saddled with its malfunctions. They followed the rules, taking on more when it was asked of them and now didn’t have enough to pay for this medical imposition. If he had the money, they could have swapped the chip for a new one earlier, but now it was too late. By now, the device had poisoned his wife’s body so deeply that even his wealthiest clients didn’t have the funds to reverse the process.

While he sat there, reminiscing on his worries, the payment for the medical call cleared out his last deposit. The balance fell so low that the man didn’t have enough to account for the quarterly living increases, accurately predicting they would push him to the outskirts with his destitute neighbors. But the money didn’t matter anymore. The dream didn’t matter anymore. Without his wife, nothing mattered anymore.

 The world fell into the background as the man watched the trains come and go. He held his wife’s dying hand, listening to the rumbling of the cars and the screeching of the railways, breathing in the post-rain breeze, feeling no desire to go home where nothing waited for him but the bitter reminder of his wife’s soon-to-be passing.

The man heard the bots cleaning and repairing, working patiently around the couple on the bench. His eyes drifted to a limping machine finishing up an installation of a new advertising display, watching it fold its tools away into its metal belly. With the job done, the bot hurried off, and cheerful voices burst from the new panel.

 “— the sleeping pod induces a transient state, mirroring an organic form of sleep, giving you eight hours of uninterrupted rest and the possibility to experience dreams.”

He watched the glowing pixels, seeing the same images that had captivated him under the pouring rain the night before. The words, embedded in his mind, played long after the advertisement switched to another, taunting him with their message.

“Dream,” the word returned with a fervor.

“Dream,” it yelled louder, pushing through his tears.

“Dream,” it demanded to be heard.

The idea crept up slowly, teasing at first, then latching on, convincing him there was no other way. It solidified into a plan against his wishes, outlining every step with an irresistible determination. He couldn’t fight the order, propelling him off the bench and to his new destination: the only place that might give his wife what he couldn’t.

“Hold on a little longer,” he said, looking into her vacant eyes. “Just a little longer.”

4

The sleeping pod emitted a low hum, signaling a session in progress, casting a white light reflecting on the polished floors. The house bot rested in its charging dock, and the AI assistant kept a watchful eye over the night. Nothing was out of place. Not a dust bunny in the corner or a crumb on the counter. Not a peep or beep of unexpected noise through the windows. The night was silent, and everything and everyone were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Charlotte lay sleeping on the flatbed inside the pod, cocooned under its transparent screen. Her chest slowly rose and fell while her closed eyes showed no signs of rapid movement. Her body was asleep, but she experienced no dreams, even if the machine promised her to.

The AI assistant assessed and reassessed Charlotte’s well-being, documenting her vitals for further inspection. It converted the information into binary data, transferring it through the internal communication systems carried by electrical signals and down the wires to the hard drive controller. But before the recipient could process the information, all power drained from its units, leaving the AI assistant powerless over the house — and Charlotte. In a desperate cry for help, it sent a signal to wake its mistress before its artificial consciousness plunged into darkness.

The sleeping pod beeped, wrapping up the session, and released a hiss as it rolled back the outer shell. Charlotte blinked with confusion. She felt disoriented and jolted into wakefulness, convinced the session was shorter than usual, and the lack of light trickling in through her windows confirmed her suspicion.

“Assistant?” Charlotte spoke into the night.

The house bot woke up at the sound of her voice, abandoned the charging dock, and rushed over.

Charlotte sat up, waiting for a response, but none came. The overhead lights didn’t turn on as she expected, and the low glow of the sleeping pod failed to penetrate the night’s darkness. A panic brewed deep in her stomach, instinct knocking to be heard. She flinched as the house bot whirred and stopped a few feet away.

“What happened?” Charlotte asked.

“I’m not sure,” the bot replied.

The clueless duo stared at each other briefly, listening for any sounds that could explain their debacle. The eerie silence made Charlotte feel exposed and under-protected. The nearest human was ten feet below. But could they even hear her if she yelled for help?

A loud clank shot out of the darkness.

“I’ve contacted the authorities,” the house bot said as it shared its data with the nearest police precinct. By now, Charlotte was convinced of an intruder and didn’t want to attract their attention. She tried to shush her helper, but it didn’t understand, as the bot only knew to help its primary user with household tasks, not to plan around danger. That was the role of the AI assistant currently trapped in limbo, unable to reclaim control and fulfill its ultimate purpose: protecting Charlotte.

“I will investigate the issue,” the house bot rushed into the night before Charlotte had a chance to protest. Internally, she cursed her helpers for failing to do as she wanted, yet desperately longed for their return. Now, more than ever, she needed someone by her side. And after all, they were all she had.

With no one to help her, Charlotte stumbled to the wall, following its sturdy hand as she searched for any semblance of light.

“I’m sorry,” the man’s voice cut through the night.

“Who’s there?” she blurted out without thinking and immediately regretted her action, fearing her sudden response would pull the stranger closer. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she thought, berating herself for the impulse.

Charlotte’s mind ran wild as her heart sped up, desperate to flee if only she could see a destination. Instead, the young woman aimlessly stumbled around in the dark, moving further from the sleeping pod, until she saw a tiny glimmer inching closer. It moved through the air, bouncing light on its polished surface before disappearing and reappearing in the darkness. With each second, it caught the elusive beam and twirled it around before releasing it along its sharp edge, leading Charlotte to realize it was a knife.

Her body froze and her stomach sank, releasing a floodgate of pins and needles that hugged her body tightly as she watched the winking knife crawl closer. The man moved speedily in her direction, clutching the weapon he snatched from the kitchen. As he came face to face with his victim, Charlotte stared at the familiar blade the house bot used to chop and prepare dinners. For years, she had ignored this tedious kitchen utensil, but now she watched it morph from a tool to a threat.

“I’ve disconnected your system,” the man said, looming over her like a shadow. His voice, soft yet shaky, desperately tried to assert dominance while shielding the overwhelming fear bursting through his fragile resolve.

Charlotte was fielding her own mix of terror and rage, feeling an impulse to grab the knife and fight the intruder. But any commands she sent down to her arms were met with panicked silence.

“Please move,” the man gestured to the sleeping pod.

Charlotte followed his orders, shuffling back to the dim source of light while her mind ran all the possible scenarios. He would kill her, she thought. Or maybe he wanted money. Maybe he knew her father and brother and wanted them instead. Maybe he planned it all along, casing her apartment earlier, learning the ins and outs of the security systems, leaving tools behind to return in the dead of night while she slept and creep in to slash her helpless body —

“I’m sorry,” the man said, interrupting her spiral.

Charlotte didn’t know how to respond. All water evaporated from her mouth, leaving a desert desperate to quench a growing thirst.

“Wait here,” he said, putting out his palms and redirecting the pointed knife from her torso to the ceiling, subtly gesturing that he wouldn’t hurt her if she followed his instructions.

Charlotte watched him disappear back into the darkness and pull the knife with him. Her collarbone tensed up and her eyes watered. It was worse not to see her assailant, wondering if he was tip-toeing around her vigilance. She thought about running, leaping into the other room, grabbing at any one of her toys for protection, but couldn’t bring herself to move an inch. Instead, she politely stood by the sleeping pod as she was told, watching the light reflecting on the polished floor, waiting for her intruder’s return.

The house bot whirred out of the darkness, “I was unable to locate the source of the noise.”

But before Charlotte had a chance to exhale her worries, the man returned. And he wasn’t alone. He carried a woman about his age with wispy hair and gentle eyes. She didn’t look at Charlotte or the house bot. “Is she his accomplice?” Charlotte wondered silently, studying the woman’s protruding bones.

The accomplice blankly stared into nothingness as if the intruder hadn’t brought her to a foreign property, carried her up the stairs for hours, and left her to wait in the cold hallway while he executed his plan. She didn’t rush to explain the situation or make excuses for his actions. She merely existed in the tension while the man and Charlotte waited for the other to make their move.

The man was taken aback by the house bot. He didn’t anticipate a separate system for this helper, convinced that the hack should have neutralized anyone standing in his way without cutting off power to the sleeping pod.

“Alert! Alert! Alert!” the house bot screamed in fury. “There is an intruder. I have alerted the authorities. You must leave this instance or risk prosecution.”

“Tell it to step back,” the man pointed the sharp blade with the same hand he used to balance his wife’s lifeless body. “Tell it to step back!”

Charlotte’s eyes darted from the frail woman to the sharp blade. “Who is this creature?” she wondered. “Is she a captive like me?”

“I won’t tell you again!” the man screamed, his face turning red as tears rose to his eyes. His hand shook so hard that Charlotte realized she could knock the weapon out with a single hit. But she didn’t.

“Step back,” she calmly instructed the house bot.

The bot idled, staring at the intruder, momentarily disobeying his mistress. In those tense seconds, it referenced its manual, searching through the obligations and emergency protocols, conferring with the manufacturer’s design before complying. Tired of its insubordination, Charlotte kicked the bot and commanded, “Step back.” It whirred rolled into the corner, keeping a close watch.

The man struggled to keep hold of his wife as her paralyzed body weighed heavily on his arms. Charlotte observed this effort, feeling her fears wither away. She watched as he gently placed the woman on the flatbed, judging their disheveled appearance: the stains on her clothes, the dirt under his fingernails. Charlotte was appalled they welcomed themselves into her pristine home mere hours after paying the man a proper sum for his labor and complimenting his skills. She unknowingly projected her disgust, contorting her face into a bitter frown, pushing down the corners of her lips with such force that it drained all the hard-won beauty from her face.

“You’re here to steal from me?” Charlotte blurted out the accusation.

While the man was preoccupied with his wife’s comfort, Charlotte was overwhelmed with a fierce sense of territoriality over her dominion.

“How does it work?” he asked, running his shaky hand across the buttons.

He lacked experience with the latest gadgets and struggled in frustration to force it to respond to his commands.

“How does it work!” he snapped.

“I’m not helping you,” Charlotte said, after a tense moment of silence. She did not attempt to hide her disdain, wearing it proudly in the face of her captor.

“She needs it,” he hissed, gripping the outer shell and pressing his sweaty hands into its smooth exterior.

The wife lay on the flatbed, with her chest gently rising and falling while her unfocused eyes stared just past Charlotte’s shoulder. Despite the woman’s sickly appearance, Charlotte couldn’t muster an ounce of empathy. Instead, she found herself fixated on the inevitable cleaning process following her unwanted guests’ departure and felt annoyed that her shiny new toy would need a good scrub before she could resume her sleeping cycle.

“I’m tired,” the wife released the words in agony.

The painful syllables flooded Charlotte’s ears, instantly turning down the brewing revulsion. Within seconds, the young woman found her attention switching from inconvenience to a sudden concern for the woman’s well-being.

“She needs a doctor,” she said without thinking.

Charlotte noticed the dryness around the woman’s lips, the pale skin and lifeless eyes, the thinning hair and protruding bones, and the sagging clothes that looked to have outgrown their hostess. The images pulled every facet of Charlotte’s attention away from her frivolous concerns and toward the dying woman in front of her to realize she needed a doctor.

“How does it work?” the man repeated, holding back his overflowing desperation.

“It won’t cure her,” Charlotte responded. “You have to bring her to a hospital —”

“What do you know of the world beyond your castle,” the man said harsher than intended.

Their eyes met: hers, wide with horror; his, bloodshot and hostile. Charlotte rummaged her mind for a quippy response, but the moment she opened her lips to speak, she understood him completely. Shame washed her body as she glanced back at his dirty hands and the woman’s delicate frame, piecing together their predicament. How could they hurt her, the dying woman, and her hopeless caretaker? What could they take from her that the world hadn’t already taken from them?

But before she could speak, the house bot charged forward. Bright lights pierced every window, assaulting Charlotte and her captor. It was the police introducing themselves to the neighborhood.

“Relinquish the weapon and exit the apartment with your hands raised,” demanded the bot. It was sharing its data with the buzzing machines outside, and in return, they provided instructions on how to disarm the intruder.

The house bot inched closer to the man with a menacing whirr.

“Wait,” Charlotte jumped forward, blocking its way. “Wait, just wait!”

The man clutched his knife, ready to fight off the bot and every machine outside if necessary.

“It won’t cure her,” she told the man, trying to avoid violence. “She needs a doctor.”

“Nothing will cure her,” he growled in response, tears streaming down his face. “No one can cure her. Not anymore.”

The house bot tried to push forward, but Charlotte held it back.

“Turn it on!” the man screamed, spitting out his rage as he banged on the sleeping pod.

      Charlotte thought about releasing the house bot on her captor. She imagined herself running to the machines at her windows, letting them in, and watching as they dragged out her intruder within minutes. But a strange sadness whispered in her ear, questioning her anger and annoyance. A hesitation held her back from making the obvious choice.

      “Please step aside, Charlotte,” the bot said, repeating the instructions transmitted by the police outside.

She watched the man, observing the hatred in his eyes — the same hatred she felt for her metallic helpers. She almost admired his bravery, feeling jealous of his dedication despite the obvious, tragic outcome. He was willing to do what she couldn’t. He was willing to fight them.

“No,” Charlotte said sternly, turning her eyes to the house bot.

“Please, step aside,” the bot protested as instructed by the police.

Charlotte let go of the helper and loomed over it with a stoic expression before saying, “Leave.”

Despite the danger, the demands from the police, and its default programming to protect its primary user, there was one thing the bot had to do: obey.

“Leave,” Charlotte said louder, funneling the years of pent-up despair and aggression into one simple word. “Leave!”

The bot slowly backed away, rolling out of the room while Charlotte moved forward, each step increasing the distance between it and the man. She calmly guided the helper out and closed the door, noting the bright, trickling light seeping through the threshold.

      The man watched the exchange in awe, clutching his knife closely, now more afraid of Charlotte than she was of him. The rage had drained his last remaining energy, leaving him hollow, clutching a useless utensil for protection. He was unable to fight her off if she decided to take back her home, unable to protect himself or his beloved if the machines burst through the windows. But they didn’t. They didn’t break their barricades because of Charlotte. And he felt immense gratitude for this kind act.

Charlotte was no longer preoccupied with his presence or threats. She marched to the sleeping pod, adjusted his wife’s frail body, and reset the session to the beginning, programming and reprogramming its settings to account for the user change.

The sleeping pod let out a beep, and the outer shell descended to encapsulate its new patron.

“What’s happening?” the man asked, his eyes running around in confusion.

He didn’t notice as Charlotte brought out chairs for him and herself.

“Sit,” she said. “It’s a long session.”

Charlotte took a seat by the sleeping pod as its mechanism launched into action, mixing and dispensing an odorless gas that filled the chamber. The lights on the small panel indicated the stages of consciousness as the woman inside slowly breathed in the gaseous concoction. Her eyes blinked slowly, growing heavier with each fall and struggling to rise back up. Her muscles relaxed, succumbing to the chemicals in her bloodstream, as her breathing became steady and shallow.

The man looked at Charlotte in disbelief: Why did she help him? What did she want? Did she know something he didn’t? Will the contraption hurt his wife? Does Charlotte plan to hold her hostage to negotiate his surrender? Was it her plan all along to barricade the doors and trap them inside while she executes her a clever ploy —

“Sit,” Charlotte repeated, interrupting his spiral.

The man fell into the chair, his eyes bouncing from his wife to Charlotte, from Charlotte to his wife.

“Why did you help me?” he asked.

Charlotte didn’t have an answer. She hadn’t planned to help this stranger or his guest, nor did she have a goal or destination. But she felt a burning sadness at the thought of this woman’s pain. At the thought of a world that left her to suffer. At the thought of no doctor who could ease her symptoms. And in a way, she felt a kinship with the man who fixed her machines and now stood to break them.

The sleeping pod let out another beep to indicate the user was now unconscious, and the session began.

“I don’t know if it works,” Charlotte said, sadness pouring through her lips. “I’ve never had dreams.”

The man watched his wife’s chest rise and fall. He wanted to reach out and hold her hand but couldn’t. He yearned to lie beside her one more time but couldn’t. He wished to hear her speak, no matter the words, but couldn’t. All he could do was watch her eyes sit under the heavy eyelids that twitched for reasons he couldn't understand, and hope she felt the relief she desired.

“I’m sure it will work,” the man said.

He leaned against the outer shell, placing his head against the thick casing, closed his eyes, and extended his hand to Charlotte. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t speak. But Charlotte understood the invitation, lowering her head and leaning across the shell herself. Her hand found his, and the two lay still, listening to the buzz of the police bots outside the doors, picturing them swirling in a frenzy as they steadied their breaths.

Charlotte allowed her eyes to close, shutting out the world and breathing deeply as the noises subsided, growing quieter and quieter and then turning off completely. Now, she could only hear her own faint inhales and the steady heartbeat as she drifted away. She no longer felt the smooth surface beneath her cheek, the rough hand of the stranger beside her, or the deep loneliness that plagued her every thought. She was no longer in a home that separated her from the world, no longer controlled by soulless machines with no compassion for her wants or needs. She was finally free to go where she wanted. And now, for the first time, she could even see dreams.

[homeboyyyy]

Pixel Art Photoshop 5.0 LE - HSL file T Shirt in White

[bomberqueen17]

weaving nerdery continues: pickup

so I attempted to teach myself pickup, which, well... I should actually buy a book or something. I searched the web and found a lot of mediocre videos and in my struggle to find a threading pattern wound up with one that was, well, not strictly ideal. I still don’t understand the principle entirely well enough to improvise my own pattern, but then, perhaps maybe I do, and I should experiment a little bit.

But! The upshot is that I successfully wove a band of about 45″ in length, a bit over an inch wide, and while I didn’t have any good patterns, I did have a pixel chart of 5-pixel-high letters, so I put text all down the length of the band.

My first few letters.... weren’t, and I nearly gave up, but then decided I had to make this work, and so I wrote “fuck this”, and discovered that F and U and C are all quite easy to do, and by the time I got to K, which is not so easy, I had momentum on my side.

So I kept going. Pictures below the cut.

This was my first success, that F.  The K is.... mostly intelligible.

This is the other end of the band, where I finished it and then cut it off the loom. The K is... not really better. I know what’s wrong but well-- by that point I didn’t have enough slack to fix my mistakes.

But here’s the middle of the band, which I’m rather proud of:

I can do all through Spite

Which strengthens me

One of those slogans you see kicking around the Internet, and which someone recently had commented to me on AO3 as a life slogan for Yennefer, which is accurate.

I do get the general gist of the technique, and I... sort of think I know how to do this with slightly less frustration.... maybe. So, I gotta summon my nerve for that but I’m gonna try.

[slcwshow]

Joshua is a villager that lives at Sweet Pea Ranch, north of Cindersap Forest. He is one of the characters available to marry.

Most of Joshua’s days are spent working on the ranch, and he can typically be found there. Regardless of heart level, players will be welcome inside his farmhouse between 6AM and 9PM, but his bedroom is only accessible to a player with four hearts or more.

Once Ginger Island is unlocked, Joshua will only visit the resort if he is married to the player character. He will only spend time there on a random day in summer, but never on a festival day or on the day of his check up at the clinic (Summer 10).

NORMAL SCHEDULE

🌾Mon-Thurs, Saturdays, Sundays

5.30AM - Wakes up and makes himself breakfast. His house is inaccessible during this time.

6AM - Leaves his house with Cricket and heads to the barn, where he will be seen petting his cows and completing his other daily chores, such as refilling their food trough and mucking out the stalls. If a player interacts with one of his cows during this time, they have a 5% chance to gain a hidden +1 luck buff, which is only signified by a line of dialogue from Joshua (“hey now, looks like you’ve made a friend!”).

8AM - Lets the cows out to roam in the field and will begin doing maintenance on exterior aspects of his ranch. Cricket will also be running around outdoors during this time, and can be pet by the player.

12PM - Returns to his farmhouse for lunch. He will always invite the player to join him, and they will receive the benefits of a Farmer’s Lunch if they accept.

1PM - Takes Cricket on a circular walk through Cindersap Forest, around the town centre, and then back to the ranch.

3PM - Does more chores around the ranch.

5PM - Rings the bell to let the cows know it's time to come home, then gets them bedded down for the night.

6PM - Returns to the farmhouse for dinner.

7PM - Does chores around the house with the tv on in the background. If the player asks him what he's watching, he never has any idea - it's just background noise.

9PM - Joshua goes to sleep.

🌾Fridays

Joshua completes his normal schedule until 9AM.

9AM - Goes to the General Store to do his shopping. On Fridays there is a 0.5% chance that Joshua is wearing a t-shirt with a pixeled out slogan while he runs errands in town.

10AM - Goes to the Feed Store to stock up on things for his cows.

12PM - Returns home and packs a lunch. If the player visits around this time, he will apologise that he's headed out for the afternoon and can't sit down to eat with them, but will offer them one of the sandwiches from his picnic instead.

12 30PM - Takes Cricket on a long walk through the Mountains. He always finds a stick to throw for her.

4PM - Returns to the ranch and does chores in the farmhouse.

5PM - Rings the bell to let the cows know it's time to come home, then gets them bedded down for the night.

6PM - Returns to the farmhouse for dinner.

7PM - Heads to the Stardrop Saloon for the evening. Joshua will usually sit and chat with another resident of Pelican Town, and never drinks more than two beers. If the player insinuates they might like to dance with him, he gets shy and laughs it off.

9 30PM - Returns to the farmhouse and goes to bed.

WINTER & RAINY DAYS

Joshua's schedule goes on as usual, except that the cows stay safe and dry inside the barn, and Cricket stays indoors until it's time for her walk - ranching isn't a fair weather profession, so he still has plenty of work to do.

VARIATIONS

🌾7PM (Tues, Thurs, Sun)

Joshua calls his parents and will speak to them for an hour before he resumes his normal schedule.

🌾Summer 10

Joshua completes his normal schedule until 9AM, at which point he leaves for the clinic, where he will stay until 4PM. After that his routine continues as usual.

🌾Winter 6

On Winter 6, Joshua goes to Zuzu City to visit Katie’s grave, and will be absent from the Valley for the entire day. It is the only day the player cannot enter his home (interacting with the door only yields a note explaining that he’ll be back tomorrow).

🌾Winter 7

Joshua resumes his normal schedule, but is noticeably subdued when the player approaches him.

[pawbean-soda]

This post was written by leopard

We are making political stickers in our graphic design class and we made ours about therianthropy. I'm sorry but that's what you get when you give us free rein on something like this. We only have a sketch right now but the final will be made in Adobe illustrator (I think). Anyway here it is.

Toby made it. He was inspired by those pixelated animal rage pictures you'll see around sometimes. I really like the teeth and the little slogan.

[boag]

Am I under some spell? And do my thoughts belong to me? Or just some slogan I ingested to save time? This night is missing people… The sea, it had no one… hardly no one… It had shapes, it had light… Some were flashing, most moved…. Me, I couldn't look away…. But still no-one came or left, they just stayed… But they weren't there in the first place…. Overpopulated by nothing!!! Crowded by a sparseness!!! Guided by darkness!!! Too much, not enough… “Content” that's what you'd call it…. An infant screaming in every room in your gut…. Bets strum on an intention, but best left unattended…. How gathered the pixels in the dust of the digital age to our being…. With what do I wash?? Put on some music…. My friend walks the same path every day… Steep the stairwell, cognizance to coma…. ignoring best he can, an inconvenient reality, the consequential chore that unfolds in the naked sprint from screen to screen… scrolling binary ghettos for escape, for reminders…. And this would be a good idea: to free poets from the back padding dungeons of content and comments… To free artists from empty and vulgar broadcasting ritual…. For this year it became harder to be tender!!!! Harder and harder to remember!!!! Meeting a friend!!! Writing a letter!!! Being lost!!!! Antique ritual…. all lost to the ceremony of progress!!! Like the sensual organs removed, they were only weighing you down, you didn't need them!!!!! Ignore this part, it's an advertisement…. These people are famous, I'd trust them!!!! Protesters stayed home this time around….. Some enlisted, some never heard the first shots…..