A mute little thing with borrowed magic. A house that murmurs back. Ask wrong, and you might wake something that remembers your name.
Dopamine Trap
Dopamine Trap does narrative driven decay. With organic noise, apocalyptic soundscapes, and scathing poetry his productions cast lovecraftian solopsisms on the roof of the skull, dripping with tumors of unresolved inter-generational trauma, resignation and reckless, violent love. He delights in emptiness and the granular implications of percussive silence.
In Depth: Miscellaneous
*this is a giant, everchanging collection of micellaneous tidbits about my life and career.* On The Moniker I had a habit as a kid of creating fictional enti...
Welcome to Reverie House
Dreamers across our wild mindscape call Reverie House their home between dreams. Join them, explore, and learn the secret art of dreamweaving for the benefit of all.
musings of a sad, seraphic slut - heart and soul ♡
a peek inside the heart and brain of soul
Trauma Junkie
[First place winner in the Synapse Storytelling Contest for Fiction.] It’s Christmastime, and over the hills, in the faraway furrows of one of those endless tracts of half-submerged land, a main battle tank sits in a ditch, decomposing, festering. My tank. But the neighborhood seems to have forgotten, here in the shadow of the old Hospital, that shining ziggurat high above. An aspiration, once — and an obligation.
Panzanella
Panzanella, which sounds as though it should be the name of the beautiful heroine in a ballet or a fairy tale, is the word for a damp and tomatoey bread salad from Italy. Not only is it a good way of using bread past its bouncy best, but it is also a jubilant end for a handful of tomatoes so old they're moving beyond ripeness and towards skin-splitting, fuzzy-fleshed maturity.
Echoes of Mana Tomb
Restore a shattered world by channeling mana and awakening the elemental forces in this atmospheric incremental game.
AITA because I (fairy prince, 1573yo) can't stop wiping people's memories?
Moves in Under Hollow Hills are a double-edged sword, creating passive geasa that encourage fundamental, magical truths about characters.
Meditations On Moloch
I. Allen Ginsberg’s famous poem on Moloch:What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and u…
Fatal Distraction: Forgetting a Child in the Backseat of a Car Is a H…
archived 10 Jul 2025 23:27:06 UTC
Then it runs like peace through your chest, 's sounds like a song, from times long past it rushes through your mind. 's is Feieromd etc. Some people's hearts have been lost, over is sorrow and pain, and over the grave, very gently drifts, a sound from over there.
fluffy fairy 🧚♀️
One of my all-time favorites.
