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Beatnik Poetry Sucks :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 0 0
Goetterdaemmerung I by PhoenixWerthan
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Goetterdaemmerung I :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 0 0
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Face to Face :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 0 0
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The Shrieking of Nothing is Killing :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 0 0
Literature
The Wolf is Still With Us
The Wolf is Still With Us
Back when the sky was red, in brisk mountains that lay on the heel of temperate steppes, which were padded with dark forests, a band of men and women in primitive clothing strutted about and did their primitive work.  They would have been fair, had the fair Sun not envied them and bronzed their skin.  Their houses were of stone and mud but not so simply built, and on an outcrop was a larger building, nicer built: a temple, with a smoothed stone altar in the middle.  The sun was low but the sky still bright, and a couple of big, brawny men wearing bear skins like Heracles wore the Nemean Lion’s were holding ropes on each side of a gigantic ox, pulling it to the temple.  At the altar was an androgynous figure, also in a bear’s pelt but with a deer’s antlers on their head and the feet of a deer and holding an elegantly-crafted stone knife.  The sky began to dim as they slit the ox’s throat for the sacrifice.  
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Tell no one by PhoenixWerthan Tell no one :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 1 0 Weltanschauung by PhoenixWerthan Weltanschauung :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 2 0
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Angles and Normans, part 1 :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 0 0
Literature
The Way of the World
Forward! I say,
Upward! Overcome!
And go under!
Thou hast nothing else.
Forward! I say,
For thee awaits no destination,
For thee awaits no goal,
But forward thou must’st go –
And under!
Walk up to that looking-glass,
Gaze upon that there –
Let the flame of thy soul flare up,
Clench thy hands into claws
And tear that down –
Then rise!
Thou canst have nothing else –
Become!
From death’s gulf springs new birth,
As in the spring of the Earth!
I command thee,
Go forth!

Become what? Go under what?
Thou sayest, I make no sense!
There is no what in my maddened word-glut,
I say – I truly have no defense.
But my words, maddened though they be
Shall prove themselves – now thou just see!
But must’st thou reply, I do not know why,
“Just shut up and bite me?!”
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Anything that can be reached with a ladder by PhoenixWerthan Anything that can be reached with a ladder :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 0 0
Literature
Victory
The armored boots of two warriors were planted feet from the edge of a cliff as they overlooked the land and saw a great black cloud sweep over hill and dale. The Earth was littered with the bodies of the dead as far as the eye could see, and wolves and ravens came to take the souls of the slain to the halls of the gods. The Sun was beginning her descent into the Underworld, and firey light shot up from underneath the Earth and accross the sky as she pierced the horizon.
“How many of ours were killed?”
“At least a few hundred.”
“That’s barely a victory.”
“Our people are safe in their houses and the slain go to the halls of the gods, never having to concern themselves with journeying accross the Abyss, except maybe after their next life or so. I’d call that a victory.”
Just hours ago, the Sun shone brightly and golden rays shimmered accross the edges of swords, the tips of spears, the faces of shields; their weapons flashed and
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Literature
There Must Be Order
In the region to the northwest of the empire of Galeym, there was a region of rugged hills and low mountains, transitioning into the high mountains, the White Mountains, that the Empire could not pass into, and these hills were known as the Pailti, or, regionally, as the Pailtz, which means “hills” in the language of Galeym, and in these hills were many villages that were not part of the Empire. It was a beautiful day in Spring, with the Sun peaking over the hills as birds twittered in the trees, and the villagers in Sohmk were at their work in the fields, which, being in the hills, were swiddens scattered here and there in gaps in the woods; generally, the people were of such a disposition that their work, no matter how hard, did not weigh them down, and they could be heard singing while they planted:
The fair Sun shines o’er all our fields
Which will soon a great harvest yield
The Earth’s reward for all our toil
On the Pailtz’s blesséd soil!
A young
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Literature
Sin and Death
I remember now, at that appointment, something I had not even noticed when I was there: a soft, guttural cackling, seeping out from the bowels of the Earth, and I realize now I may have very well unwittingly sold my soul.
“Have you had any thoughts of killing yourself recently?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Yes.” I hadn’t, but if I said yes, I would have my parents under my thumb; no more fighting, no more being called “bitch” or “dumbass”, no more being backed into corners and grabbed and pushed and hit. They would have to feel sorry for me instead of hurting me, they would have no choice if they wanted me to live so they could go on hurting me, or so they thought – so I thought. I’d have to take meds, but that’s really the worst that could happen.
No, it wasn’t.
I don’t remember how I got here, I don’t remember anything for a while before when I got here. Now they’re coming to make me take my
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Literature
The End of the Perpetual It
They had walked and rode for days deep into the heart of the jungle, and their packhorses had become weary as they had become weary, when they came into an unexpected clearing in which a great, old stone pyramid was standing, which the sight of renewed their energy and they decided to go in. At the foot of the pyramid were steps leading not to the top of the pyramid, but into the heart of thd pyramid, about halfway between the top and bottom; they tethered their horses and climbed the steps until they were inside. They were surprised to find it was not dark inside, but dimly lit, and there appeared to be a brighter light emanating from an upwards-leading staircase at the end of the tunnel to the right, while the downward-leading tunnel to the left was dark.
“I say we go up first,” said the expedition leader.
“I think we all agree. I myself would actually rather not go down at all,” said one of the crew.
“I would agree with that,” said another one, an
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Everyman?  Man is not even the innocent by PhoenixWerthan Everyman? Man is not even the innocent :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 0 0 From this burning world by PhoenixWerthan From this burning world :iconphoenixwerthan:PhoenixWerthan 1 0

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Crystal by Der-Reiko Crystal :iconder-reiko:Der-Reiko 205 14 Celtic Knotwork Belt by Half-Goat Celtic Knotwork Belt :iconhalf-goat:Half-Goat 140 22 Bamburgh Castle by newcastlemale Bamburgh Castle :iconnewcastlemale:newcastlemale 414 132 Zell Am See Streets by Pajunen Zell Am See Streets :iconpajunen:Pajunen 419 65 Ordinary Morning by TobiasRoetsch Ordinary Morning :icontobiasroetsch:TobiasRoetsch 1,434 177 Wet under foot by LordLJCornellPhotos Wet under foot :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 168 42 Winter's cold blue by LordLJCornellPhotos Winter's cold blue :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 221 71 Glenelg vista by LordLJCornellPhotos Glenelg vista :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 164 96 The passing of the seasons by LordLJCornellPhotos The passing of the seasons :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 294 64 A Scottish icon by LordLJCornellPhotos A Scottish icon :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 257 52 A fresh start by LordLJCornellPhotos A fresh start :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 292 74 An angry sky by LordLJCornellPhotos An angry sky :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 317 86 The clouds part. by LordLJCornellPhotos The clouds part. :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 231 63 Abandoned by LordLJCornellPhotos Abandoned :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 245 70 Legends are made of this by LordLJCornellPhotos Legends are made of this :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 299 92 A glorious prospect by LordLJCornellPhotos A glorious prospect :iconlordljcornellphotos:LordLJCornellPhotos 247 48

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PhoenixWerthan

Artist | Student | Literature
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I just joined last.fm out of curiousity since it gives you a review of how mainstream or obscure your music listening habits were and I thought that was interesting. People always brag about how obscure the music they listen to is, and I bet I could outdo everyone. I signed up, and since I named my account after a specific song, I decided to listen to that one first. The recording of it on the site was not very good at all. I decided to look for some of the songs I was listening to earlier, and they weren't even on the site. I am genuinely disappointed that this radio site doesn't have a lot of the music I like to listen to, because, aside from wanting to flaunt some 0% Mainstream rating, I really just wanted a customized radio station. This would have to be a taste of the punishment in Hell for pride.
  • Listening to: The silence of my despair

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I just joined last.fm out of curiousity since it gives you a review of how mainstream or obscure your music listening habits were and I thought that was interesting. People always brag about how obscure the music they listen to is, and I bet I could outdo everyone. I signed up, and since I named my account after a specific song, I decided to listen to that one first. The recording of it on the site was not very good at all. I decided to look for some of the songs I was listening to earlier, and they weren't even on the site. I am genuinely disappointed that this radio site doesn't have a lot of the music I like to listen to, because, aside from wanting to flaunt some 0% Mainstream rating, I really just wanted a customized radio station. This would have to be a taste of the punishment in Hell for pride.
  • Listening to: The silence of my despair

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Beatnik poetry sucks
It's all like –
I take Prozac!
I hurt myself!
Ah!
Let's see how much
We can say
Shit, fuck, asshat, then
I don't want to
Fuck you
But I am, so
Fuck you
William Blake
Rolls in his grave
Cut this bullshit
Not your wrists
Ah!
Beatnik Poetry Sucks
A Beatnik poem about how Beatnik poetry sucks.  I ended up reading a whole book of Beatnik poetry, even though I didn't want to, which is also what Beatniks say seemingly every time they have sex, but now I can do whatever I want with the form, so I at least get something besides having done perhaps the most intensely masochistic thing I've ever done from it.  
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Goetterdaemmerung I
Götterdämmerung I: Fenrir swallowing the sun.  This is a calligraphy ink drawing I did a while back for a series juxtaposing old Germanic (in the broad sense) myths with modern technology, events and fears.  This version will probably get moved to scraps and replaced with a new version, since it's not that technically great, but still important and interesting for other reasons.  
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“The difference between individualism and anti-social behavior is really like the difference between patriotism and nationalism: the former is just a polite way to describe the latter,” he whispered as harshly as a shout.  
“Maybe so, but doesn't society need a little anti- sometimes?  Thesis, antithesis, synthesis, you know,” the other one replied with a chuckle.
The dirt path in the forest vanished so slowly that they couldn’t see it going away.  The moon sank into the landscape just as imperceptibly until the world was stifled by shadow.  The other one slipped into the cover of shifting imperceptibility as the first continued to talk into the flickering shadows.
“That's not how it works ever, you know that, right?  And anyways, it seems there will be a storm, we should head back…” As the first one walked off his voice became all but indistinguishable from the rustling of leaves in the feeble breeze until even the footsteps of insects drowned it out.
I've got to get away, he thought, away, away, because as manual labor breaks your body, mental labor breaks your mind, anything they make you do breaks you somehow, because before you can be made into something else, you must be broken...  He kicked a rock against the hard Earth so hard that it skimmed as if over water, then hit a tree a way away and shattered like glass.
Out the corner of his eye he saw a figure move, a silhouette, only brighter, but he could not make out any details other than its humanoidness and its gait.  He tapped the ground as if he were using the thumping for echolocation, then saw a cave-like crevice under the roots of a dead tree and slipped in.
The sound of steady plodding of footsteps swole like a wave rolling across the dirt right over his head.
“Mark, are you sure this is the way back home?” asked a 20-something-year-old woman with a middle-class London accent.
“Yes, now guys, just trust me,” replied a guy of about the same age with a less-than-middle-class London accent.
As they plodded on, a storm rolled gradually, silently in from behind them until it overtook them.  Lightning crackled like inhuman laughter that should come from below rather than above them, and raindrops fell lightly like the tears of someone being burnt.  
“Your house is not this way!  We need to turn around!” she cried.
“Yes, yes, yes…” the group muttered fracturedly amongst themselves.
The other man saw the silhouette from the corner of his eye again.  He saw that it had skin-tone, that it wore clothes, that it looked, on the level of the senses, entirely human.  On some level above that, it looked not human at all, and as it sprang before him, he saw it had his own guise, but it did not make a sound, did not even breathe.
I always thought that if I saw anyone too much like myself, I should die, he thought, and only now do I realize what exactly that is.  It looked him right in the eyes, and there was such an intensity to its gaze that it seemed to penetrate his being all the way through and then come out the other side, yet it also, at the same time, spiraled back into itself, although that was abyssal and could never be penetrated.  He tried to avoid looking it right in the eye but his eyes only wandered away to wander back again, then away, then back, until finally he fixated on it as being the most interesting thing he had ever seen and got lost within it.  At that moment he had everything about himself revealed to him.  Then he realized it was no longer there, as if it had suddenly vanished, although he never noticed when.  He began to wonder if he had even seen anything there in the first place.  
He heard the cries of people in the distance: “Help!  Help!”  He felt for his hunting knife in his pocket, then dashed out silently to see what was going on.  He saw a group of people scampering about, falling apart then back together again and again like a flock of birds that has been startled then coalesces back together like a blob of water at the bottom of a pool.  He recognized that same bright shadow although he saw no details.  He then drew his knife in a lunge as he sprang from the shadows and became visible.  The flock of people softly gasped, although he could not tell if it was at him or the thing and whether it was a gasp of awe or terror because it was deformed on the whispering wind.  He saw the silhouette and darted at it with his blade and stabbed it to oblivion, but it would not die, only moved in a flash, so he sprang after it again and tried to stab it to death, but it only flashed a few feet away again, and this repeated again and again until finally, after he stabbed it enough, it collapsed to the ground, lifeless, if it ever had life in the first place.
Then he looked around at the ground and saw that it was littered with bodies covered in deep stab wounds, and the Earth was drenched with blood as if there had been a shower of blood rather than rain.  He looked up face to face with a body and saw it was not the doppelgänger he had seen earlier but a beautiful woman, and despite the stab wounds it looked as if she should be asleep rather than dead.  He then examined all the other ones and saw the entire party he caught a glimpse of earlier and then his friend.  He got yo the left edge and then, finally, saw a body that looked like himself, with a glance coming softly from its eyes and barely-opened mouth as if to say, “Help me!”
Then he cackled lowly without a sound and shot up like black lightning in the night into the storm overhead as it gently rolled out into oblivion.

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"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society." – Jiddu Krishnamurti

“Why don’t you respect what I want?” said the 20-year-old Robert Jones, “I may not be the age of majority, but you can’t just bulldoze over my autonomy like that!”
“Your doctor said it would be better for you to have the chip to regulate your thoughts and emotions,” said his mother, “who am I to argue with that?”
“There is nothing wrong with my thoughts and emotions.  I’m different, but I can function fine.  I think I know myself better than some essential stranger knows me.”
“Show me your medical degree.  Thoughts and feelings are part of the brain, so of course they’re medical.”
“Are armed conflicts problems in electromagnetism because they involve lightning guns?  No.  Thoughts and feelings are not problems in neuroscience – if they are problems at all – because they involve the brain.”  They’re not reducible to the brain, and he’s had that argument too many times and won none, but if he implies it rather than stating it, she doesn’t seem to notice.  Almost as if somewhere deep in her heart, she knew he was right.  
“Well, you’re the child and we’re the adults.  You listen to us and when you move out on your own, you can do what you want.”
“This implant has been killing me though.  I can’t go out to the hillside or forest without being bombarded with flashing lights and beeping sounds coming from inside my head.  There is no more peace for me.  There are always pop-ups, and something about them seems to correlate with what I’m thinking, as if my thoughts were no longer only my own.”
“You don’t find that nice?  Nature is slow and boring.  I know thousands of people, and you’re the only one I know who likes that, or books and poetry, or worst of all, classical music.  That puts me to sleep.  This is why no one under the age of twenty-one is allowed to make their own medical decisions.  Hopefully when you get older, you’ll join the real world of adults.  Also, isn’t it nice to have someone who knows what you want always and gives it to you?  Like your own guardian angel.  Except we all know that’s not real, and this is.”  
“Shut up.  If you don’t let me I’m going to get this implant out myself.  It’s worse than anything you or anyone else could do to me.”
“But you need it, or else you’ll go crazy and who knows what you would do.  You could fail school, or hear voices, or blow all your money, or shoot yourself, or go on a rampage and kill everyone with an axe due to your incurable brain disease.”
“Listen, I control me, not my brain.  And no one has ever proven that crying when you read beautiful poetry or feeling joy when you listen to a Beethoven symphony is a pathology.”
“It’s inappropriate emotional affect.  That’s a sign of pathology.  You also believe in things that are clearly proven to be false, like God, and interpret things as having personal significance to you, when really everything is completely random.  That means you are delusional.  Just listen to the nice lady who wants to help you, since you can’t understand that you’re sick.  If you could understand, you’d want this for yourself.”
“Please, listen to me.  The only problems I’ve noticed I’ve had for myself are after I got the chip.  Aside from the other things I’ve mentioned, I have been hearing and seeing things that aren’t there.  But I know they’re not real, and they don’t quite look like quite like part of the environment –”
“That’s called hallucination.  You’re really about to go off the deep end and you really need help.”
“No, that’s not how it works at all.  But this is the worst part:  Often I will go into a dream at night, or into a brief trance in the waking hours, and I see horrible things, shifting and scintillating so I can never figure out my orientation or theirs.  I hear one low voice, shifting like the images, like I imagine a demon would sound.  And they’re speaking something I’ve determined to be Akkadian, and even though I can’t understand that normally and it’s not translated for me, I understand it then.  They say, your mind is not your own, we know you more than you know you.  The heart has reasons of which reason knows not, and we are in the deepest part of your heart, pulling the reins of Dionysus’s horse.  We are inexorable – do you not understand?  Strange doors have been opened that can never be closed again.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.  Then I feel worms writhing in my heart first, which cut through it and my head and gut are severed from each other, then worms write in the rest of me, pulsating as they write.  Then I am falling apart from the inside, then some giant foot is on me – is it in a jackboot?  Some sort of stinking, filthy boot with nailed soles, anyhow.  Then I hear nothing and see nothing, and it is over.  This all happens in the blink of an eye, but it is as if it lasted centuries.”
“No…”
“What?”
“I thought that kind of thing… Was a malfunction with mine, and I was going to go get it fixed, but also afraid to bring it up.  No one else has mentioned it.”
“I don’t think technology normally malfunctions in specifically organized ways.”
“That might just be your magical thinking, but even that seems wrong to me.”
Five minutes before eight o’ clock in the evening:
Robert Jones was walking in the parking garage, about to go see a surgeon that could remove his implant.  This would take a couple of minutes at most and then he’d be in the clear, and anyways, he was almost there.  He brought his mother with him, as she was suspicious as well, although not as intrinsically suspicious.  
Then he heard a slight ticking noise, that came from somewhere quite near, but he could not figure out where - as if it were moving, and he turned, looked around, could not find it.  Eight beats - it tapped out eight beats.  
“What are you looking around like that for?”
“Oh, I just thought I heard something.”
Then he was certain he heard something.
“O FREUNDE, NICHT DIESE TÖNE!”
“What the fuck?”
“You’re going crazy.  This isn’t such a good idea.  I think we should head back to the car right now.”
“No, that’s a horrible idea.”
She grabbed him in something like a judo grip and dragged him back towards the car.
Then the clock hit exactly eight, and there was one flash of light, as if from a gun, but there was no gun.
Then he heard nothing and saw nothing, which was unbearable.  Then he saw a tunnel, gold, red, silver, glaring on the blackness, with pulsating ribs as he fell swiftly down, and became surrounded by the images from his own mind, from his own heart, like he heard the shamans did back in alien times and alien places.
Then he heard the demonic voice again.
“Welcome to the abyss of your own mind.  It is forever incomprehensible to you but utterly simple to us.  You have been disconnected from your body, and to it you will never return.  This is what awaits the mind after separation from the body: Neither Heaven nor Hell, neither Elysium nor Tartarus, neither Valhalla nor Niflheim.  You’ll wish for any of those rather than, as we said, this abyss.  This is both death and a new life, a dream from which you shall never awaken.  You shall be here until the end of the Universe ‒ and then you shall be merely extinguished.  It is like annihilationism, but annihilationism for all without discrimination!  The pain of being will be but an infinitesimal speck compared to the dread of extinguishment to you.  You shall never awaken from this dream, because you shall be in dreamless sleep forever.  Even when others think they have restored you to your body ‒ and they will ‒ all it will be is an image of you, essentially your doppelgänger, and no one will pay attention enough to know it is not you, and even if they do, they can do nothing about it.”
“I refuse to bow down to you.”
“We know you thoroughly, and you know yourself not at all.  What do you think you can do?”
He then saw himself in a forest, which he thought was so overcrowded with trees that it made the distance and the sky itself appear black, before he realized that the distance and the sky actually were black.  Then he saw, creeping behind trees, what he soon realized was his own visage, prancing joyfully, but also slinking sinisterly through the shadows.  It came into clear view for him at a moderate distance, and pointed and laughed at him silently.
“Don’t you understand?  You are dead now.  And you will have to face yourself.  There is nothing you will hate more than yourself once you see your rotten, weak core.  At best you were like a whitewashed tomb.”
Then he found himself lying in his own bed, in the morning, and everything seemed normal enough, except he had missed his alarm.
No, not everything ‒ he lay on his back rather than his side, and could not flip over, for his back was flat and hard, and he was covered in alien white, oozing splotches, and he had six little legs that flailed around out of his control without any weight to push them down.
This has all been very clever, but would you please cut it out already? he tried to say, but all that came out was the voice of a beast.
That is also a very nice detail.  
“You brought this on yourself.  You didn’t stand up for yourself when you knew something was off ‒ whose fault is that?”
“I don’t know.  I almost got out of this, but my mother wrestled me away.”
“You’re weaker than a woman!  You may as well be a little girl!”
Then he found himself in some sort of hospital room, but with no doors and no windows, not even any lights (where was the dim, yellowish light coming from?), on a patient’s chair ‒ and in a girl’s body.
“I have nothing to say and I’m saying it,” he said to try to lighten the mood, but it came out in a squeaky little voice that disgusted him to hear from his own mouth.  Then from behind him he saw the shadow of a doctor, but the doctor himself was invisible even when the shadow, which drifted and had its upper body move but was otherwise stockstill, moved in front of him.  The shadow appeared to be holding some sort of invisible object like a hammer with a hollowed-out center in the shape of a small head and point in the center of that.  He felt this instrument push against his head, and the point go in, but seemingly without having to break his skull or even skin.
“Don’t you understand ‒ all you are is a body and a brain!  This is why we know all your fears, your shame, much better than you!”  Then he was overcome by something like chaotic, red lightning within his head, and found himself in darkness, with no body at all, no way to move, no way to feel, no way to even scream, and nothing around him.
“Enjoy your stay!”  
Soon he lost track of time, but it felt like billions of years at the least, and his thoughts grew ever more alien to himself.
The Shrieking of Nothing is Killing
This is a dystopian story about transhumanism I wrote a while back and had the basic idea for a long time before that.  It's rather surreal, so it's hard to figure out what exactly it should be censored for so as not to get certain kinds of people enraged, or alternatively over-censor and enrage the people who actually like this kind of thing.  It works more as a chapter than anything even though I cut it off after it had already become much longer than it was supposed to have been.
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:iconmistercadaver:
MisterCadaver Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Hey
Thanks for the favs +fav 
If You enjoy my works, please do check my gallery for new stuff ;3 
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:iconmrsbadbugs:
mrsbadbugs Featured By Owner May 20, 2017  Student Digital Artist
thx for the Llama Fever and Fav :headbang: revamp by CookiemagiK
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:iconteakster:
Teakster Featured By Owner Mar 24, 2017  Professional General Artist

:wave:

Yaaaaaaay - I have a new friend! :glomp:

Thank you for supporting my work! :hug:

Let me buy you a BIG bowl of ice-cream! :D

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:icondark-indigo:
Dark-Indigo Featured By Owner Mar 7, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks 4 faving Garden...:)
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:icontellurian84:
Tellurian84 Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you for the favs and the watch, I'm glad you like my 3D scenes! :)
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:icondanyroyrobert:
DanyRoyRobert Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for all the fav ! 
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:iconshi-rai17:
Shi-rai17 Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2017  Student Digital Artist
thanks for the favorite :)
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:iconillmatar:
illmatar Featured By Owner Feb 26, 2017
Thanks for the :+fav:s!  :)
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:iconholmes-ja:
Holmes-JA Featured By Owner Feb 26, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the watch!
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:iconscheinbar:
scheinbar Featured By Owner Feb 26, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
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