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I have a recurring nightmare about big fuzzy puffs floating out of the sky and eating my hometown. And so, this image was born!
Experimenting/venting. Success, or utter failure? YOU DECIDE!
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Watching its three-leaf companions sway in the evening breeze, the lonely four-leaf clover sighed and thought to itself, "How lucky they are to have each other."
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On a scale of one to ten, you'd be about an eight

And friendship-wise, you're one of fourteen people I don't hate

Inside my mind you'd find a kind of love that's always true

But honestly, though you're still nice, I love me more than you

But don't you fret, because I reckon

That you come in as a close second

Sort of love you, kinda care

Maybe wish you weren't there

But that's okay, because I know

That though you're dumb and dull and slow

Eventually I'll sort of like you

Just until I want to fight you

Loving others is so hard

You kinda bore me, but here's a card.
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Erwin Schrödinger may or may not have had a dog. It depends on how, or when, you look at it.

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A: Okay, so here's how it works: You step through that door, and you end up back in here, same exact moment you walked in, but with memories of everything you did up to that point.

B: What, like...time travel?

A: Not LIKE time travel. It IS time travel. For some messed up reason, this door in your basement's turned into some kind of interdimensional portal or something.

B: Huh.

A: Here, try it -

B: HEY! No way!

A: Why? What's the matter?

B: If I go through that and you're right, how will I know I'm coming back to the same place? What if it just LOOKS a lot like where I was before, but ISN'T?

A: What the heck does it matter then? You'd have no way of telling the difference.

B: How do you know? I've been through it like, ten times!

A: Yeah, but you're not as perceptive as I am.

B: You're - what? I am SO much more perceptive than you.

A: How do you figure?

B: Well, I found the damn thing, didn't I? Freakin door's IN YOUR HOUSE, and you never even bothered to open it!

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What, are we not romantic enough?

Yeah, sure, hearts move a little blood around. Whatever.

We draw oxygen out of the freaking air.

There's gotta be an artsy metaphor in there somewhere.

I'm just saying, maybe next Valentine's Day get your significant other an alveolus full of chocolates or something. Throw us a bone.


Again, by lungs.

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Interior, dawn, as you step through the doorway

Talking to yourself like you've got something important to say



You're wet from the rain, but your tone's dry as always

You shuffle through the room like no one else has seen harder days



And then you open your mouth

And the worst thing I can do is be honest

The worst thing I can say is I read you from the moment you walked in

But I want to - bad - because you opened your mouth

And the best thing you could do is stay quiet

The best thing you could do is pretend you're just a part of the scenery

And just blend before you bring out a meaner me.

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Keeping in my theme of annually releasing rough recordings of vague songs about the night-time, here's something I dug up that would be sooo much cooler if one of you more talented folks here approached it. So please, please do. Pretty please? 



When the light has died, and tired eyes are left to wander

Then, the silent dead will walk the night, undiscovered

Though they do not hide, they hypnotize with ghostly gaze

And you'll see, with bloodshot eyes, their dark disguise will fall away


When the night comes alive, all your lies come to light

And  your mind will devise a soul-saving story

When the night comes alive

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Inspired by ntheon's Squiggles icon. Done with a little old school magic.
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Now it can't hurt me any more.
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Don't take anything with a grain of salt. It's bad for you.

Imagine for a moment that at its core, every thing you've ever observed or experienced in some other way, living or dead, was hollowed out. Not entirely empty, but missing the one fragile little piece at the center that would make it complete. Heartless.

Buried in the dark, damp crawl space carved out by whoever stole the core of everything, tucked under stringy dead fibers and packaging peanuts, is a note - a referral to the ever-shifting center of the universe. It's all there, the note promises - the heart of everything hasn't been stolen, just put in storage. The notes are currency - symbolic totems, promises manifested in the physical realm. They mean nothing on their own, but all point to the idea that gives them value - the promise that somewhere, the essence of that person, or dog, or apple, or mp3 player, is being preserved for eternity.

Now, you know what the universe is, sort of. You know it has a center. You don't know where it is, but you DO know "where" it is. It's at the center of the universe, duh.

But wait, you mutter, scanning the cosmic IOU - how can you know "where" it is if you don't know WHERE it is? The universe is expanding, and the center now is light years away from where it was when you started reading this.

Aha, chimes your subconscious, digging its way out of the recesses of your mind for a once-in-a-lifetime conference with your reg'lar old conscious - that's exactly it. You don't know where in space it is, but since it's always moving away you know where it isn't.

In short, everything has a soul - THE soul, stuffed in the universe's freezer for later like leftover pizza, while we semi-hollow zombies just surf the big bang waves of our premature birth into the outskirts of reality.

I'm hoping this'll make sense before the heat death of the universe totally messes up my dinner plans.
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One day, he'll echo through the most hallowed halls in the world. He'll be on the lips of billions, and his myth will stretch into infinity.

But for now, being tiny isn't so bad.
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