Paste The Last Thing You Copied V.5

[necropoliis]

20729398

[57461]

yeah, youll evolve into a legendary shiny trash when u get the social repose stuff from dani


i am one of the worst friends of all time

[lysistraticmuse]

closer to the apprentice and moved his paw from his nose softly. "Stay still, this might sting," Darkfeather mewed, rubbing the paste on his nose, making sure that it got in where the scratch was affecting him. When finished, she wiped her paw on an old Beech leaf laying around. "Do you need a painkiller?"

Eaglefall tags;;Fernstar
"Sure thing. I may goof around, but orders are the one thing I take seriously," he laughed, flicking his tail lazily. "I heard Darkfeather saying that they might need to gather herbs later, maybe a warrior should go with them?"

[vampz]

[chanhee.]

http://www.chickensmoothie.com/trades/v ... Y9mTe3nDFA

[crumbledtower]

https://youtu.be/wcp5VSra7Vg

(My favorite Undertale animation)

[storm coming.]

ＡＳＨＳＴＡＲ

Lol I was role-playing. cx

[Echoing Apologies]

Athazagoraphobia

I was searching my phobias x3

[koifishkat]

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[fleur delacour]

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd!

[From the play Hamlet]