Dear God,
I don't believe in You. I'm sorry. This letter's really got nothing to do with that, but I figure I should put that out there. I don't believe in You, not because of any ill will but because I'm a sceptical mind and frankly the evidence seems to point to You not existing. And if You do exist, well, I've read the Bible, and I'm not sure I'd believe in You anyway, any more than I believe in the Church or Republicans. So I hope that clears the air. Please don't let it effect what I'm about to say.
See, I'm not writing this letter for me. I'm writing this letter for a lot of people. Sure, I'm among the number, and so are a lot
sometimes i lie awake at night
(read: tonight)
and think about things.
like, i wonder
if curiosity killed the cat
not because it got him in
you know, trouble,
or anything
but because, well, death,
it's such a big question,
and there's really no other way
to find out
what
happens
next.
which means i'm curled up
alone, mostly,
with my dear lover's arms around me
clinging to humanity
and surrounded,
like really surrounded,
by imaginary curious cats.
all telling me
exactly what happened when
they put the gun to their head
jumped off the roof
sniffed the cheese in the mousetrap
drank the kool-aid
crossed the street to c
I can see, from where I'm sitting here, now, that it is still possible to buy a book in paper. Paper books line the walls of this room, pile on the floor, under the bed, cram themselves in odd and awkward places. Many are new, many are old, quite a few are used and signed and occasionally singed. There are first editions amongst them, and hundred-year-old copies, copies with notes in the margins and odd, second-hand bookmarks: an ace of spades, an old postcard, a yellowed newspaper advertisement.
There will be, I've heard it said, no substitute for books. Oh, you cannot have a textbook made of bytes and bits, you cannot download the feel
I always wear my hat.
It's dark blue, or it used to be dark blue, but the years of dust, travel, river-dunkings, ocean-dunkings, sand-blasts, midsummer sports, and general wear and tear have coated it with a light bronzing effect. Now my hat is a singular shade of navy on the upper half, the part that faces the sun, and where the cloth turns downwards, flapping against the back of my head, the original colour remains beneath a dark line. My hat is very nearly a newsboy hat: the crown leans in the wrong direction, and it lacks the front band and the trademark buttons on each side. It does, however, have a slim visorlike brim and the amorph
god i dont know any of you
im supposed to talk to you arent i pick you up in my letters and coerce you into a scene but i dont know you enough ive only just met you and damn that seems so personal so forgive me montaigne dillard antin ehrlich but that seems too intimate for me words are too much a source of mind a source of thought to just show anyone even someone dead
writing a scene about an experience youve never had or an experience youre supposed to have had and didnt feels sort of like its forced like im supposed to reach my hands int
Dear God,
I don't believe in You. I'm sorry. This letter's really got nothing to do with that, but I figure I should put that out there. I don't believe in You, not because of any ill will but because I'm a sceptical mind and frankly the evidence seems to point to You not existing. And if You do exist, well, I've read the Bible, and I'm not sure I'd believe in You anyway, any more than I believe in the Church or Republicans. So I hope that clears the air. Please don't let it effect what I'm about to say.
See, I'm not writing this letter for me. I'm writing this letter for a lot of people. Sure, I'm among the number, and so are a lot
sometimes i lie awake at night
(read: tonight)
and think about things.
like, i wonder
if curiosity killed the cat
not because it got him in
you know, trouble,
or anything
but because, well, death,
it's such a big question,
and there's really no other way
to find out
what
happens
next.
which means i'm curled up
alone, mostly,
with my dear lover's arms around me
clinging to humanity
and surrounded,
like really surrounded,
by imaginary curious cats.
all telling me
exactly what happened when
they put the gun to their head
jumped off the roof
sniffed the cheese in the mousetrap
drank the kool-aid
crossed the street to c
SNIPPY: REMEMBERANCES OF THE PAST DAY by alexiuss, journal
SNIPPY: REMEMBERANCES OF THE PAST DAY
October something, something.
Today captain declared as "REMEMBERANCES OF THE PAST DAY".
The day begun with me getting smacked with a broken laptop and yells "YOU'VE GOT MAIL!".
I tried to protest that laptops weren't attacking people in the mornings back in the past. To this, Captain declared that in fact they didn't have to, because users were so addicted to reading their daily mail facts that every morning they woke up smacking their heads on their laptops.
Then my head was treated to a barrage of empty, metal SPAM cans with words "SPAM MAIL! DODGE THE SPAM! USE FILTERS!".
With these words, captain gave me two old tennis rackets. The
sometimes i lie awake at night
(read: tonight)
and think about things.
like, i wonder
if curiosity killed the cat
not because it got him in
you know, trouble,
or anything
but because, well, death,
it's such a big question,
and there's really no other way
to find out
what
happens
next.
which means i'm curled up
alone, mostly,
with my dear lover's arms around me
clinging to humanity
and surrounded,
like really surrounded,
by imaginary curious cats.
all telling me
exactly what happened when
they put the gun to their head
jumped off the roof
sniffed the cheese in the mousetrap
drank the kool-aid
crossed the street to c
Ink plus paper plus imagination, plus an ounce of trepidation...
Let's write a story.
Current Residence: Stone City, Tridensdake Favourite genre of music: GOOD music. MP3 player of choice: CD player, thanks. Shell of choice: Conch. Skin of choice: What are you, racist? Favourite cartoon character: Pinky and the Brain Personal Quote: Exploded corn fetuses.
Of course the second I leave this account and go to a new account, I get a Daily Deviation. Why am I not surprised?
For anyone who wants to follow my stuff, you can watch me here but it won't do a whole lotta good: I moved. :XD: My new account is ~That-Writer-Kid (https://www.deviantart.com/that-writer-kid), and I'll be posting more there!
...Well, not really. New account. I've got a lot of memories with this one, good and bad, but there's a few things that bug me that I can't really change. Like, you know, the username I chose when I was twelve that was REALLY COOL at the time because I used my own character's name and lol no one else would get it. Bit too girly now, especially since I've since figured out I'm trans. And secondly, I've got like eightish years of old art up here and I'm too lazy to clean it all out.
I'll still log on to here every now and again, but for the moment this is an account in stasis. My main accounts will now be the following two:
:iconThat-Wri
Hey hey hey look at this!
~TheMortuaryComic (https://www.deviantart.com/themortuarycomic)
I'm bringing back The Mortuary! Updating Tuesdays and Thursdays as long as I've got all the shamefully old pages, and then it'll probably be Tuesdays and Fridays or somesuch.