Secrets, secrets, secrets...
Crushed ice, spitting blood, almost drowning on a daily basis
-Username: Byteme
When you don't hear the full story isn't it funny who you think is evil, and who you think is good?
-Name: Easterly Katrina Stratos She'ricaulld
[
An eastward course; The eastward course of winds- Pure; Pure hell, hurricane Katrina- She'ricaulled is a spoken similar to "Sheer Cold"; A pun on Kygres renowned 1-hitKO move]
-What was your favorite part of the game?
-Art (unlimited)
-Personality
Let's play the drowning game
The sight of the average day worker makes people comfortable in their own skin, a delusional comfort. They get enveloped in the systematic synthesis and the blurr of the greatness of life, so they try to find a certain point in space to place their feet and pretend that they have placement in something so big. So big, it's like they could just... be eaten.
It's like they've become so accustomed, to the life that they're living, that they don't ask questions. Stop wondering, stop understanding, stop seeing.
-(optional) 3 Extras! (story,Q&A,etc.)
Extra 1- Philosophies
Thoughts I just can't keep away from my mind
Yellow pages, their bright presence, leapt through the wight of the desk as a screaming person would through the flames of biting fire. On each page words where scribbled down, a mess of black and blue ink and even if there was only one paragraph on the elongated lemon pages, just pages and pages, they went on longer than life. If the subject changed the page changed as well, even with just a few sentences on the prior.
Have you ever noticed how when you say a word over and over it becomes foreign. Foreign, foreign, foreign, foreign... Say it out loud, softly... Quietly, yell it, fix it's syllables, say it slowly, say it fast, scream it, cry it, blink at it when you whisper such a word that we've become so adapted to, to thinking it means just perfection. Foriegn. It has a meaning. Something much more than the noises that come out of our mouth, if words where people they wouldn't be immortal. Some of them would pass by slowly, laying in the hospital bed, feeling its energy faced yet. Some would go on for years, and change so much that the identity it had once... The identity at its birth is faded in the haze of history. Some would only be spoken with soft lips; accompanied by other gentle voiced words. Some would be forbidden and so spoken in rebellion, told just because others have made them so bad they are not allowed in the premise, so get out because others talk of you to cause trouble, to make our discomforts burn. Some would be simple, simple and sweet, grew up one day without understanding, some hard to understand, hard to pronounce, with bad lives, contrary to bad actions. Some would be just like you and just like me. If words were people they'd have a voice to speak their histories, their stories. After all... History is his story and her story. History, history, history, history. If words were people... They'd be like you and me. Adapting to things as if they are perfectious, as if they make sense.
colours
Vividness is a thing hard to understand. It can strike as quickly as the strike of lightning or it can be slight and distracting, catch you're attention into a daze.
Music
The feeling of singing even though you know that the people shiver and their ears quake in pain. Those vibrations are uneasy.
This is a test of confidence and freedoms. There is judgement in everything people do so why would signing out loud be any different?
Magic... The truly most frightening and enlightening feeling that burns giddily in a persons chest, you being the only one that knows the secret. A magician never reveals his tricks, and he may die with them... That term is cliche, but now... The knowledge of one particular aspect of the world is gone. But prominence is something that requires secrecy.
It's like, if everyone collaborated to create a picture and then one of them died, when they disappeared the part that they created, Coloured and sketched, disappeared too. And in this big world... In the bigger picture, in the real picture it was like nothing had happened... In the view of all the other corners sketched and drawn in place. It's like giving puzzle peices to a group and letting them create the puzzle. Then... she's gone, and the entire left corner of the puzzle erodes away. A list created by everyone missing everything written in blue. Keeping a magic trick is like keeping a life, a secret life. It's a super power. A hidden power.
And when they hold their blade to your throat and ask about your magic tricks, your secret powers, you mite not be willing to admit how you got out of that wolfs cave or how you made people think the cheap stuff in your arms was money, sweet holey... Dirty retributional money.
Because the burning feeling you get every time you do something world defying and the feeling you get when you smile at someone and say "A magician never reveals his tricks." is something spectacular, wouldn't you say? Who else, if not few and sparse in this world of millions, can pull a dove out of their hats or put a painless saw through living flesh. Who else can say they havn't got magic, havn't got abilities?
Holidays
Senses
Noise
Placement- Maybe I get so used to it I don't see.
Repetition is adaptation-- systems created
I think art is a talent set in all ways. Just like writing, the way someone creates a picture, with flicks of the wrists and pulling pressure over each finger tip. It's hard to explain exactly what they do, because it has become secound nature.
Impatience
---
Extra 2- Autobigraphy... Stories within a story
A surreal feeling passed him. Silence, there was nothing to indicate life except for his floating form.
He could feel the luke-warm water against his flesh and protruding goose bumps even though the temperature itself was lulling.
He was drowning.
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Fur Elise played in the background, the little dancing figure did pirouette after pirouette, an ensemble of grace spinning around tirelessly, bobbing up and down without ever the need to stop. A slight bit higher pitched than any piano medley, rhythming out the same song everytime hands, a touch soft, opened them, it had him in love.
Carved into the sides--- an intricate masterpiece, a web of movemnt hard to understand.--
The little metal knob at the side of the pale black box was turned and out came soft notes that danced along with the little figure and it's shadow. It lead and the dancer on the platform followed with its pink ballet slippers and peaceful expression presented oh so carefully. Fur Elise, the song no matter what the speed immersed him, compeletely, in careful scales.
Vigilantism
Vigilantly business
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He swayed, there it was again. It's blue form so broad an expanse, only causing him to stare back at his reflection over it. The waves pulled in, hugged the dock, only a few centimeters from his shadowed form, then pulsed back once more. There was a hush in the air, anticipations buzz to fallow it. He was on that base where someone stood, thinking will I or will I not even though it had already been decided... I will.
His body fel heavy, the water stained marks left by the waves cooling his bare feet, with air becoming such a hard thing to get possession of. He began to oscillate from his point, paused like a movie set in place. His head dizzy, the weight of his own muscles like the the weight people, individually sitting there like sinking rocks. Sssh, how could the waves sound so soothing yet injure his brain in such a way? He was at that moment where falling wasn't a bad idea, just a way to give way to what the body wants, where going down only would ease him somehow.
The yellow in his eyes reflected back the sulenly state of his mind, a morose growth of thoughts that floated around like creatures, not touching there feet down yet so swift... Like smoke, enveloping him. Undulating like a pendulum, blood pulsing within him, through his ears the pumping madness without control, the air brushing like poison on his lungs, its imaginary fingers leaving just soft traces of its whereabouts... he fell.
In the water he fit in perfectly, the blue of his pelt becoming a part of of the ever going flow, fingertips passing through the ripples he had created around him, the beautiful chirps of birds becoming diluted under the mass. It was hard to describe, the cool sense passing over his body, the waters press from the palms of his feet, toes outstretched, to the top of his head, hair flowing as if enlightened by the freedom of the waves, and yet to his eyes as well, he could feel the chill of the smooth collection of droplets. Invigorating, so natural, comforting, a sense of refreshment, could put you to sleep like mothers arms, understanding, placement.
Episodic
Surf
Flutter
Melancholy
If spoken for
Thoughts like algae
Tasting blood, for definitely not the first time.
The taste of apathy
His brain ached and reverberated in thought, trying to forget, sinking deeper into the water with him
----------
A small glass figurine was placed down
You havn't even made it to the pirate flower fish tank
Xx
extra 3-
The senses --- let us see.
Isn't blood unlimited...?
Are you depressed yet
Seriously depressed
Anosmia
Small
Archeology
Sea creatures
Fossils
Random facts
Archie
Glass, crash and blood
Staying underneath the water until bubbles float- hand pushing your head up
Eyes glow underneath
Glass figurines
Chasm of glass shards
River of careful thoughts
His thoughts crumpled up into tiny peices
And threw themselves out of his brain like suicide bombers
I can't, I just can't... You just took my heart and pumped it with so much love hhh