#analog memo

[tiiidan]

Feather contamination detected again. Kitchen privileges revoked. This you?

[whosname]

Did you see the memo about this?

[Id. President/CEO Kintoki, wearing a gold bow tie, blue vest, blue suit; with his right arm on a cubicle and a coffee in a "#1 boss" mug in his left hand, smiling like he owns the place. End Id.]

[youngestsibling]

A B12 vitamin a day keeps the brain fog away!

[aistobascistod]

:: Nine month : Make yourself noun today

Pride month : Make yourself proud today :: Spite month : Make yourself spout today

[yuurei20]

Dream-world information/rules (by request): interestingly, the dreamworlds are possibly teaching the dreamers how it feels to be Malleus:

Ortho: “It's the dreamers themselves whose imaginations form those happy dreams. Of course, those dreams still have to be made within Malleus's constraints…namely, no negative emotions like sadness or anger allowed.”

And there is someone else who is not allowed to feel any emotions like sadness or anger, lest something terrible happen 🐉

Ortho: "I thought Malleus's dream worlds were designed to provide the target with whatever form of pleasure they wanted...But maybe it's more of a system to remove displeasure the target doesn't want. Sadness, anger, and the like.”

And this is not just speculation, with Sebek and Silver coming to the same conclusion:

Idia: “It's like playing a video game where you start at max level and every enemy steers clear of you. There's no losing and retrying. No trial and error to overcome obstacles. The challenge and payoff of getting good is what truly makes gaming rewarding.” Silver: “In Malleus's case...I think in terms of encountering rewarding challenges, his experience is extremely limited. Ever since he was born…or even before then..he's had enough power to easily trounce even veteran soldiers. Starting at max level and having every enemy steer clear isn't just an analogy for him. I think it's an accurate description of his life.”

Idia follows with:

"If Malleus actually matched Sebek's description and had some unflappable superhuman psyche…we wouldn't be in this mess at all. But nope, this natural-born overlord and walking cheat code experiences the same emotional highs and lows that the rest of us do. That's what I call a glaring design flaw.” “There are times when setbacks and defeats can be contributing factors in reaching a happy ending. Likewise, there are times when successes and victories can be causal factors in a bad ending. No matter how much of a walking cheat code Malleus is, maybe he just doesn't have that level of predictive ability or control. Which leaves his only option being a systematic elimination of all negative emotions.”

Malleus has never experienced setbacks or defeats, so he has no frame of reference for happiness that derives from them.

It is beyond Malleus’ ability to imagine, and we have seen the dreams limited by Malleus’ imagination before: Lilia’s, where Malleus was unable to interfere in a timeline before his own birth.

Silver: "What if Malleus has trouble controlling things he doesn't know about and can't imagine...?"

We are still learning the rules of the dreams as the characters themselves do not understand what is happening and are providing us with information through trial and error, and there is still more, very important information to come on EN (memo: this post will need to be updated📝).

But here are some of the rules!

1. Dreams break down when a happy ending becomes impossible, at which point everything is swallowed into an abyss (hence the name of Book 7 in the original game: Lord of the Abyss)

2. Idia says that once swallowed by the abyss the dreamer can potentially wake up on their own but there is no telling what may happen to foreign elements

(we have possibly seen successful examples of “foreign elements” being swallowed into the abyss and surviving, with both Silver and Lilia having their abysses invaded by others, but Idia has not)

3. The “happiness” in the dreams is superficial, as though following the vague order of “keep dreaming happy dreams,” possibly due to Malleus’ inability to imagine what happiness is.

4. Despite the “superficial” nature of the dreams, Ortho explains that “people’s mental circuity—their hearts and minds—can be surprisingly complex,” resulting in the dreams coming up with creative ways to please the dreamers

(Example: Kalim attending a school that isn’t NRC not because he is unhappy at NRC and Rook dreaming of NRC without Vil not because he wants Vil out, but because they were both avoiding tragedies that happened there.)

5. People who shares lots of memories with a dreamer have a better likelihood of helping them wake up 

6. When a dreamer is about to wake, NPCs will try to keep them inside.

7. It is possible that consuming food in a dream aids in mental recovery

8. It is possible to run out of breath through exertion and feel pain when hit in a dream

9. Malleus is possibly keeping the stronger mages under tighter surveillance than others, with Idia and Vil being constantly attended by their dreams “GM” (human-Ortho for Idia, Neige for Vil)

10. In instances where a real-world source of negativity is too much a part of who the dreamer is to separate them, their absence is likely to cause paradoxes and dream-breakdowns.

The dreams adapt to this by rewriting the source of stress into something less offensive: a bumbling assistant version of Neige who could never hope to rival Vil and a more polite and humble version of Kalim for Jamil.

To Be Continued ♪

[imanbenerrabeh]

december digital & analog ecosystem:

hobonichi weeks planner, filofax mini memos, moleskine cahier pocket logbook & midori a6 notebook + iphone and marshall motif anc

[buzzinbeedoodle]

favorite word?

Since I can never remember the exact answer without wandering in my brain for a bit, I decided that this would be something I walk through with my family. That turned into a conversation for a little over an hour going over many different words.

Here are some I would say could meet that criteria (partway through I realized there is so many, I will put some of my most favorites out of these at the end). List begins under the cut:

Synecdoche and Sycopated are pretty good, Palindrome is really nice on the ears, I like the whimsy of Miscellaneous, Pathological is a nice set of syllables, Lechery is also quite nice on the ears, Embroidery is really unique, Metastasized (while coming up with this one my brain came up with the entirely fake word 'Ambrostatic'), Needle-Nose is a nice hyphenated one (hyphenated is also pretty good), bed (lowercase specifically because of how it looks like a bedframe, hexadecimal is the closest to a real favorite I've found, corporeal and hedonist are pretty nice, Genealogy is really cool and I like that it has an 'A', Auto is pretty good as a short word, Draught is pretty fun, Bureau and Beax, Dachshund, Luminous, Abcess/Abbot/Abbey are all good, Shenanigans is really nice, Precipitated and Particulate, Dilemma, Pneumatic, Igneous, Sedimentary, Sentiment, Sentinel, Anachronistic, Geomancy, Extrapolate, Excommunicate, Mycology+Mycelium, Timpani, Illusory, Baleful, Mercurial, Capricious, Precocious, Cartilage, Collagen, Splayed, Spring-form, Tincture, Apothecary, Custard, Carrion, Calliope, Callous, Echo, Cavernous, Magnificent+Malfeasance+Malcontent+Malignant, Luminescent, Nominal, Faux, Dreary, Archaic+Cubic, Rubicon, Archetype, Joules, Ampere, Obscure, Append, Ampule, Tubular, Pipette, Downtrodden, Cytoplasm, Elastic, Embryo, Aglet, Philtrum, Monarchy, Admonished, Rapture, Ravenous, Beastly, Empirical, Rickety, Whimsical, Masonic, Arsenic, Pensive, Splendid/Splendor, Knurled, Syndicate, Jubilee, Ionic, Anion, Covalent, Anagram, Alkaline, Electrolysis, Distillation, Formaldehyde, Astounded, Buffoon, Absolute, Dutiful, Reticent, Angstrom, Studious, Anneal, Penance, Fawn, Chipper, Flaunt, Gab, Gib, Drapery, Hostility, Loaf, Phallic, Knickknack is good if hyphenated, Detritus, Petrichor, Wrack, Eclectic, Shaken, Stir (to move), Deific, Gorgeous, Inspiration, Reptile, Imperative, Sarcasm, Chasm, Duplicitous, Auditory, Hallucination, Respiratory, Circadian, Disparage+Displace, Craven+Raving, Irrigate, Underhanded, Carnivorous, Incremental, Masochistic, Wholeheartedly, Doggedly, Belittle+Belated, Bracket, Belial is pretty good even as a proper noun, Mascara, Beguile, Incumbent, Impossible, Creed, Immature, Memo, Ether, Scrutiny, Wrench, Wispy, Ironclad, Dames, Hullabaloo, Kaleidoscope, Canopy, Arouse, Instigate, Pique, Monolith, Obelisk, Summit, Surreptitious, Dashboard, Thermostat, Winging (Winge), Extortion, Alongside, Wince, Hickory, Teat, Chitinous, Examine, Expensive, Extravagant, Exuberant, Exhume, Ensemble, Intimate, Convince, Ridicule, Vested, Necessary, Jezebel, Retiree, Hideous, Helium, Technicolor, Dreamboat, Courtesan, Tart, Cartesian, Trollop, Patient, Horizontal, Harlot, Metaphor, Apt, Scrub, Dampen, Pendulum, Faerie, Answer, Censor, Audacity, Restraint, Indignant, Rapport, Repertoire, Rapturous, Ragged, Disavow, Peppered, Sultan, Tepid, Egregious, Tasteless, Off-Color, Gestation, Gesture, Haven, Glade, Elder, Immobilize, Enigma, Allocate, Excellent, Disaster, Dramatic, Desiccated, Cleft, Basilisk, Oubliette, Sepulcher, Antiquated, Through-line, Animated, Cephalopod, Amorphous, Androgynous, Scintillating, Bizarre+Bazaar, Gizzard+Buzzard, Quicksilver, Tact, Amorous, Thorough, Analogous, Enamel, Porous, Orchestra, Concurrent, Serendipity, Simulacrum, Automaton, Personalized, Spurious, Parasite, Ardent, and Pandemonium.

(Pluses and slashes do not indicate relations between words beyond them coming from the same sort of place in conversation)

Now for the personal absolute/closest favorites out of the list: Hexadecimal, Genealogy, Precipitated, Anachronistic, Geomancy, Extrapolate, Excommunicate, Timpani, Mercurial, Capricious, Callous, Apothecary, Malcontent, Nominal, Archaic, Admonished, Splendor, Anion, Distillation, Angstrom, Anneal, Penance, Gab, Petrichor, Imperative, Duplicitous, Underhanded, Incremental, Belittle, Beguile, Pique, Monolith, Thermostat, Exhume, Jezebel, Courtesan, Harlot, Apt, Egregious, Glade, Enigma, Basilisk, Oubliette, Scintillating, Tact, Amorous, and Concurrent.

Trimming that list down even more: Hexadecimal, Precipitated, Anachronistic, Excommunicate, Mercurial, Capricious, Nominal, Archaic, Splendor, Angstrom, Anneal, Gab, Imperative, Belittle, Monolith, Harlot, Apt, Egregious, Oubliette, Scintillating, Tact, and Pandemonium.

Trimming it even more than that: Hexadecimal, Anachronistic, Mercurial, Nominal, Splendor, Gab, Imperative, Monolith, Apt, Egregious, Scintillating, and Pandemonium.

Now that the list is well trimmed, here's what I could consider a top 8 of sorts (in no particular order): * Hexadecimal * Apt * Mercurial * Pandemonium * Splendor * Monolith * Gab * Nominal

So, hopefully that answers your question.

[sciderman]

i feel like.. Every character in your universe, Peter, Wade, Cable, Johnny, MJ, Gwen, fuck even Harry. All of them are “Right People, Wrong Time”. No matter what everyone they meet is the right person at the right time, because all of them are evolving characters who get better and get worse. They are all the right people for their respective partner, but none of them are in the right place. They fall in love with eachother, but the person they fall in love with doesn't even know who they are. They fall for the version of someone who that person despises most about themselves. I don't know if you do it on purpose, but there's a nice analogy you portray using love and time.

oh, bless you anon. if there are two themes in ask-spiderpool, it's love and time. heck, this little number is first on the ask-spiderpool playlist.

peter and wade are kind of always hilariously Not on the Same Page, ever, actually - when it comes to the freaky timescale of love. it's a running gag, really, that peter just has the poorest timing imaginable. he's always, always running late. always last to get the memo.

he decides it's time to fall in love with wade the precise Moment wade is making the active choice to fall OUT of love with him

wade's mad about that

peter decides to spring all this talk of love just as wade's finally finding his own sense of self-worth without all those extra complications messing up his head and peter sticks a wrench in it

i think all of wade and peter's relationship issues really do come down to peter having poor timing. for springing things onto wade long before or after he's ready for them. if he was earlier, it would've been less heartache. if he'd waited longer, maybe it would've been built on sturdier ground.

peter does the right thing at the wrong time. all the time. and he's trying - he's actively trying so hard right now to manage his timing. to not push wade too fast. to be patient.

but also not be too slow.

peter just - can't find the middle ground. and it's driving him crazy. he knows he needs the time to be right. but he doesn't know when the time will be right. the time is never right.

it's kind of the joke now, that peter and wade are kind of bouncing back and forth in time because neither of them are ready. they will be, eventually.

but for now...

it's true - kind of all of their relationships are victim to this - it's funny, i think i've been victim to it a bunch of times in my life, too. where a person might've been the one - might've been everything, but you... you just didn't act in time. you didn't recognise it at the time. things just... didn't work out. schedules didn't align. one small little misstep in the universe. i always wonder about what kind of people could've become important in my life, if i'd done a few things differently. if i'd said the right thing, at the right time.

ultimately, i think everything happens for a reason. and when something's the right time, it is the right time. there's no hypothetical "right time" that you missed the alarm for. if it were the right time, it would've happened. but life's a game about trying your darndest to know when to act, and when to hang-fire. and, well - what happens happens. you win, you lose. but whatever's meant to happen - well, it'll happen.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Pensacola Prince Andrew, aka Matt Gaetz, has been defenestrated. 

Good riddance. 

The next weakest targets are the alleged rapist Pete Hegseth and the registered Qatari agent Pam Bondi. 

The Democratic position should be communicated in simple words: an alleged rapist cannot command the American Armed Forces, and a Qatari whore, who cashed the checks of the government that harbored Hamas while they plotted October 7th, cannot be the chief law enforcement officer. 

Hakeem Jeffries should make his members read the Monterey California police report into the congressional record.  He should apply maximum pressure on the weakest Republican members who know their place in the MAGA herd is on its periphery — on the outside. There, they run against the headwind, and feel the full force of the dangers that lurk everywhere. 

There are a few predictable ingredients when it comes to creating political good fortune. 

The first is luck. The second is your opponent’s incompetence and overreach. 

Trump is overextended, and the transition plan has collapsed into a rubble of insanity 60 days before the inauguration. 

He has taken his first step backwards, and will take many more. 

The zebras on the outside of the herd are the ones who are most vulnerable. In this analogy, their names are Hegseth and Bondi. 

The Monterey police report established beyond a reasonable doubt that Hegseth is an epic buffoon. Truly. 

He may also be a rapist. 

He seems to have a problem with women. Big time. 

Something broke somewhere, and this ought to be explored psychiatrically and forensically under public examination before the Senate Armed Services Committee. 

According to Reuters, Trump plans to decapitate the senior leadership of the US military in a Stalin-esque  purge. Guilt by association and kangaroo justice await the men and women who have spent their entire lives in preparation for immense responsibilities and leadership. 

The good news is that behind them is another, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another. 

On Thursday, Karoline Leavitt, Trump-Vance transition spokeswoman issued the following statement:

This report corroborates what Mr. Hegseth's attorneys have said all along: the incident was fully investigated, and no charges were filed because police found the allegations to be false. Pete Hegseth is a highly-respected Combat Veteran who will honorably serve our country when he is confirmed as the next Secretary of Defense, just like he honorably served our country on the battlefield in uniform.

Pete Hegseth should be brutally questioned about the US Navy and USMC and naval warfare theory, history, strategy and tactics. 

The attitude of the Democratic opposition concerning his service in Iraq should be…wait for it…”We don’t give a f@#k.” 

It doesn’t qualify him to be Secretary of Anything — let alone Secretary of Defense.

He should be derailed, mocked, humiliated, defeated and sent into a splendid exile on the Mar-a-Lago patio.

The whole lion pride should swarm the slowest zebra first — Hegseth — trip him, and then eat him. 

When he’s gone and left behind as proverbial bones to be bleached by the hot sun on the Savanna, it will be time to give chase to Bondi. 

She has fresh legs. Let her stretch them. She will not get far because she is running in Qatari quick sand. 

I have said many times that Donald Trump Jr. is a moron and proof that nepotism is a very bad thing. It does demonstrate that Trump had some insight when he had some reluctance to bequeath his name, lest his progeny be “a loser.” 

Junior has always reminded me of Uday, while Eric throws off more of a Qusay vibe. They are easy to mix up. 

At any rate, they were a big problem for Saddam because, in the end, they were Saddam’s kids, and it was just going to be really hard for them to turn out okay — like Eric and Junior. 

This is the point that really matters, especially if you are going to let Uday and Qusay pick the cabinet after their father buried their mother on the first hole of his golf course — after allegedly raping her years earlier. 

You get the point, right?

This is all madness. 

Make Pete Hegseth defend his depravity, his ethics, his unfitness and keep him pinned down. He is the top target.

Expose his profound and epic lack of knowledge, grasp of strategy, history and culture regarding the US military. 

There is an old USMC saying: it is the 7 Ps.

It stands for “prior proper planning prevents piss poor performance.” This philosophy must be embraced by the Democratic Senate minority, led by the comically inept Schumer.

The US Navy and the US Army are two of the country’s oldest institutions. They are venerable. They are powerful. They will weather Trumpism if for no other reason than the NCO corps is as steeped in the traditions as is the general officers. In fact, from a lived experience perspective, more so. People who live without a North Star or a code do not comprehend those who do. 

Let me tell you a story about the US Navy. 

Think about this, as the alleged rapist and AAA-certified Fox News morning doofus gets ready to sink it:

This is the story of an elegant lady and her master. Her Master is a woman. She commands an American warship, a 44-gun United States Class heavy frigate, personally named by George Washington.

She was designed by an American genius from Philadelphia and built by New Englanders in a Boston shipyard.  Her bow has sliced through all the Earth’s oceans, across four centuries of time.

American merchant ships and their crews were being preyed upon by the British and French Navies and looted by barbary pirates. 

The young Republic was dependent on trade and commerce. The Third Congress appropriated money for the construction of six warships under the Naval Act of 1794 to protect American shipping.

The construction of the ships was spread between six states and cities. Local economies boomed around the building of the most technologically advanced machines ever constructed on the North American continent.

They were the spacecraft of their age, marvels of science, engineering and design.  Though bigger than French and British frigates, they were smaller than the Capital ships of the great European naval powers. They were fast and their speed made them lethal under the command and crews of the born sailors who shaped the young United States and her Navy.

United States Ship is abbreviated as USS and precedes the name of an American Warship. What would be the names of the six ships?

 It is an interesting question to ponder. Surely, the naming of these first American warships would have been imbued with meaning in 1794. We know it was not a trivial decision, and that it was made at the highest levels of government. The Secretary of the Navy submitted a list of ten names for consideration to President George Washington. 

His office was as new as the country.  Since there was no precedent, the founding generation was forced to make it up as they went along. John Adams had proposed a style of adornment and address for the office that would have embarrassed a European aristocrat. Washington rejected the flowery titles in favor of Mr. President.

The naming of the ships was a Presidential decision, and they offer a window into what was viewed as important, significant and meaningful in a young country not yet powerful or secure.

The first ship was named the USS United States. 

One was named the USS Chesapeake, after the great Bay near Washington’s beloved Mount Vernon on the banks of the Potomac River.

Another, the USS Constellation, signified the constellation of stars on the blue corner field of the new red and white striped flag of the United States. 

One was named USS President. There was only one President in the 1790s. He was the only elected Head of State in the world and his name was Washington. 

King George III was curious about what a “President” would become and what Washington would do. He was astounded when he was told that his rival would transfer power voluntarily and return to Mount Vernon. The King said that if that were true then Washington would be the greatest man of his or any age.

There have been 46 American Presidents. Grover Cleveland counts for two. There have been great ones and bad ones. Honest ones and crooked ones. There have been successful ones and incompetent ones. There has only ever been one that has sought to break his promise and hold power against the will of the people. There are many names for such a person. American President has never been one of them.

Another was named USS Congress. The Congress was a co-equal branch of government that stood equally with the Article 2 and Article 3 branches of government created by the Constitution of the United States that imperfectly imagined a new nation with a new system of government into existence. The Congress was comprised of the elected Representatives of the American people. 

It was unique in all the world.

There have been 117 Congresses. They have been filled with American people from our greatest thinkers, leaders, statemen and women to our most sublime fools, imbeciles, crooks, cons, racists, ne’er-do-wells, seditionists and criminals. 

In the end, the United States Congress and the great Capitol Dome under which it meets is an extraordinary living achievement, a symbol of democracy and a raging hot mess.

The sixth ship is the USS Constitution. The USS Constitution endures.  She survives.  She has been fired upon, hit, damaged and fallen into periodic disrepair. She was forgotten, but her contribution remembered by the American people when it was retold in verse by Oliver Wendell Holmes in the 1830s. 

Her hull was lined by Paul Revere, and her masts came from long leaf pine from South Carolina. She was set to be scrapped, but was saved by contributions from America’s school children in the 1920s.

Today, she sits in a quiet corner of Boston Harbor. She is the oldest floating ship in the world and the oldest warship in the US Navy. She remains in active service. 

Our divided nation is at edge, in an angry hour where extremism has seized power with a seething contempt for American freedom and the Constitution.

It seems significant and worth remembering that none of those first six ships designed to protect a fragile freedom were named USS Supreme Court. 

A radical court has acted in the name of the Constitution by stripping rights away from a specific category of Americans for the first time in history.  It represents a type of judicial tyranny and societal engineering that is as radical and foolish as it is destabilizing.

The Constitution of 1787 was not perfect. It was far from just. It was, however, an incomparable work of genius that gave each generation of Americans a chance to create a more just society – to perfect the Union.

The American Constitution endures. It makes the United States of America a young nation and the oldest constitutional republic in the world.

Her namesake will fire a 21-gun salute on July 4th, 2026, to the United States of America in celebration of the occasion of the 250th anniversary of the independence of the United States. 

She is undefeated. She is the USS Constitution.

[Steve Schmidt]

[lefaystrent]

Me, Myself, and These Guys Who Kinda Look Like Me Ch. 7

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: Thomas/The Sides

Summary: It starts with dreams. Then Thomas starts seeing the dream people in the waking world.

Thomas doesn't know how to bring it up to anybody or if he even should at this point.

AKA, Thomas has to acknowledge the six colorful characters in the room, much to their long-awaited delight.

Ao3 Link: click here

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I believe you wanted a conversation? Let's talk."

And so they do.

Rules are established to assist with boundaries, and in the days that follow, they are adjusted as they adapt.

Rule number one: Thomas's bedroom is a sacred temple. When the door is shut, no one shall utilize incorporeal states of being to trespass. Anyone may knock as needed, but it's up to Thomas if he'd like company. Likewise, if the door is open, it is understood that company is welcome.

Seems simple enough, right?

Thomas wakes up to the sound of his bedroom door creaking open. He scrubs the sleep from his eyes, peering at the alarm clock to see he's been asleep all of three hours.

"Whass it?" Thomas mumbles and pushes up clumsily. He thinks something must be wrong, or that he must not have heard a knock. Maybe he's dreaming. Wouldn't be the first time that he thought he woke up in a dream.

The door practically slams closed.

"Eh?"

Is he...being spied on? What did they want? Who was it? Why did they have to wake him? Can he lay back down and go to sleep? Wow, that was loud. And rude. Or something's wrong. What's wrong? Was he having a nightmare? He thinks he was having a nightmare. There was a math test involved. Ew.

The door opens again, wider this time. Virgil hovers in the doorway, shoulders hiked up to his ears and shame-faced.

"I am so sorry," he blurts out. "I didn't mean to do that. Or wake you. I'll go."

"No, no, what's wrong?" Thomas calls back before the door can close. Sleep dust cakes his eyes, but he's got half a brain functioning. He can tell something's off.

"It's stupid," Virgil deflects, as if that is a compelling defense.

"S'not stupid. What's up, buttercup?"

Wow, Thomas really is only half awake. The only reason his head hasn't reacquainted itself with his pillow is because of his propped-up arm. His eyes don't get the memo. They droop down, closed.

Virgil doesn't answer.

Huh.

Thomas has a sneaking suspicion he'll have to open his eyes again.

"Virge?"

"I, uh, I was just checking on you. In case anyone was trying to break in. Or if you had fallen. Or if there was a gas leak. There could be a gas leak right now. You never know, ya know?"

"...eh?"

"Anyway, I'm dumb, go back to sleep dude. Sorry."

And the door shuts once more, more mindful this time.

If it had just been Virgil, Thomas thinks he could have puzzled through it. Clearly Virgil is the anxious sort. After the fire incident, Virgil has insisted on being present whenever cooking is involved. Even if he's not the one cooking, he wants to watch like a hawk. It's like his own personal lifeguard, but on land. In his house. This is a perfect analogy.

Thomas can hella relate to having anxiety. Most people, when they meet Thomas, mistake him for being an extrovert. And that can be an exhausting image to keep up, but Thomas is an actor after all. Regardless, he wants to cut Virgil some slack. With the installment of the new rules, he's having trouble adjusting, and that's okay. It's all part of the learning process.

Virgil confides that sometimes he would check on Thomas in the middle of the night (or day, curse Thomas's sleeping habits) to soothe his random bursts of paranoia. Thomas sympathizes, he does. If something happens to Thomas and he dies, what happens to the dream people? Where do they go?

It's not just Virgil though. Roman and Remus keep forgetting about the knocking rule.

Thomas dives headfirst back into work the first chance he gets. He sits at his desk in his bedroom, screen displaying a script. It's the final countdown so to speak, and Thomas is delaying the inevitable because the perfectionist in him tells him it's not good enough. There's something missing. It could be better. It can always be better.

"You should throw in a 'Mean Girls' reference there at the end."

Thomas glances towards the bottom of the script. He tilts his head. "Yeah, you're right, I could wear a pink shirt."

"Exactly."

It takes a moment, but Thomas frowns and looks to his right where Roman is reading the script happily over his shoulder.

"I thought I had my door closed..."

The faint smile on Roman's face freezes. His body tenses so hard Thomas can almost feel it vicariously. "Uh...yeaaah."

"Roman."

"...I may have forgotten you can see us."

"..."

"...how mad are you?"

Thomas isn't mad. He understands that it will take time. For years they've lived a certain way. He doesn't expect things to change overnight. However, this has to be corrected. In order to do that, Thomas has to be firm in the boundaries he's set.

Thomas takes one look at Roman's obvious dejection and caves hard.

"Do you want to help me edit the rest?" he asks.

Enforcing boundaries is difficult, okay?! Really, he has no one to blame but himself. He's a sucker. A big softie sucker.

When he discusses this with Logan, the man comforts him by parsing out the reasons behind why he struggles to say no.

"Give me an example," Logan instructs.

"Well, just last night I was laying in bed trying to go to sleep... okay I might have been scrolling on my phone. But anyway! I was in bed, and then the closet door opened."

"Remus?"

"Remus."

"He has a fascination with closets that baffles me beyond comprehension."

"I've noticed. It was kinda spooky at first, which I think was the point. But he ended up coming out and started talking to me."

"Was that all? Sorry, that sounded dismissive, let me rephrase. Is that the only actions he took?"

"Uh...pretty much? He sat beside my bed on the floor and just talked about random things. Like dolphins and Catholicism."

"He has a rather stream of consciousness mentality to the way he jumps from one topic to the other. I believe he only wished to engage you in conversation, albeit at an inopportune time."

"Yeah..."

"Based on the context of this conversation, I guess that you allowed that conversation to continue without interruption?"

Thomas did. He had put down his phone and it invigorated Remus to have Thomas's undivided attention. It's like he'd been saving up years' worth of ideas for this moment.

And Thomas... Thomas didn't want to take that away from him.

"Yeah, I did," Thomas admits meekly, as if he'd been in the wrong. Was it so wrong of him?

Janus sweeps by them on his way to peruse Thomas's book collection. Thomas would think it's an excuse to eavesdrop if Janus hadn't been spending the past few days with his nose in a book. At the very least, he may be taking his sweet time going about it, thumbing through the options.

Janus does indeed reveal he's been listening by commenting, "You're not going to offend him if you tell him to go away, if that's what you're worried about."

"That's not..." Thomas rubs his knuckles together. He squints his eyes as if that will reveal his feelings better. "I don't want to tell anyone to go away."

Janus shrugs and doesn't say anything further. His silence rattles Thomas more than what he could say. It leaves him thinking on it more.

Logan taps at his chin and Thomas waits for him to make sense of this for him. "Perhaps not to go away then. If it is reframed more politely as you saying, 'I am interested in this topic, but as I am busy at the moment, could we discuss this at a later time?' Would that be preferential?"

Still no. Thomas shakes his head.

"What do you believe would happen if you did say something along those lines?"

Thomas imagines it. He imagines cutting off Remus. How it would kill the light in his eyes. He thinks of pushing Roman out of his room. How he'd feel betrayed after Thomas promised to entertain his dreams. He pictures Virgil at his door, Thomas snapping at him to leave him alone. How Virgil would think he doesn't appreciate him.

"I don't want to make them feel bad," Thomas says at length. "And I don't want them to hate me."

Logan places a hand on his shoulder. It's solid and grounding, and for a moment Logan is almost distracted by the contact but pushes through it.

"Remember what we discussed the other day? And how Virgil verbalized a similar fear? That he was afraid you would hate us? You are jumping to a false conclusion and imagining the worst-case scenario. This is known as catastrophizing."

"Besides that," Janus adds, comparing two books in his hands, "if voicing what makes you uncomfortable makes someone upset, then they obviously only care about their own self-interests."

Logan nods in agreement. "For relationships to succeed, communication must take place in some form. If you struggle to verbalize your needs, I would like to propose an alternative."

The proposal is Thomas's stuffed bear Benjamin.

It's wonderfully simple, if a little silly. Whenever one of them has forgotten themselves and phase through a door or wall they should not have, Thomas hands them the bear. It's a wordless gesture that says, "I see you, I'm not mad at you, this is just a reminder." Surprisingly, everyone is supportive of the idea.

Maybe a little too supportive. They are so eager to not overstep into Thomas's life that they frequently overcompensate. As Benjamin becomes an accepted part of Thomas expressing his need for space, Thomas picks up on how much the others are reluctant to voice their need for space. Or their wants in general.

"You guys can come to me if you need anything," Thomas had told them during their heart-to-heart the other day. "If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know."

They said sure.

They didn't lie. They're just afraid.

The most Thomas has gotten out of them is Logan and Roman expressing interest in aiding Thomas with meal prep. It's okay now and then, but Thomas makes it clear that it's not necessary and that he absolutely should still be responsible in making his own meals occasionally or order takeout. Logan sketches out a weekly schedule to assist in everyone's expectations, and Roman lists all of the recipes he would like to try.

It's not that fair though. It's for Thomas. The others can't exactly eat.

Or....can they?

"I know you guys don't need to, but have you tried eating?" Thomas asks them. They're sitting at the dining table, a notebook between them.

"Many a time," Roman says. "Every time you eat cookies, Patton tries to steal some. And don't get me started on when you bring donuts home. Logan-"

Logan butts in, "Ahem, Thomas doesn't need that many details, thank you Roman," He fidgets with the pen in his hands, tapping it against the wired spirals of the notebook.

Roman jerks his head in Logan's direction while giving Thomas a look that screams Logan would very much like to try a donut.

Thomas holds back a grin. "But what about lately? Since you guys can touch things better now."

Logan shares a glance with Roman. "There's no need. We don't feel hunger. However..."

"Is it possible?" Roman ties into his thoughts.

"To what end? Do we have a working digestive tract? Could the food be converted to energy? Or would it phase through us at a certain point?"

"There's only one way to find out."

Thomas gets up to scrounge around his kitchen. He thinks he should really go grocery shopping soon; he's running low on quick snacks. He settles for some pretzel sticks and returns to the table.

"Who wants to go first?" he asks.

Logan gestures to the bag for Roman, showing he would rather observe. Roman plucks the pretzel bag from Thomas's hands and stares at the packaging curiously. Cautiously, he removes the clamp sealing it closed and pulls out a stick.

"Can you smell it?" Logan asks.

Roman's face pinches in minor disgust. "Why would I smell it? I'm supposed to taste it, Sub-astute Teacher."

"Smell is entwined with the ability to taste. Without it, perception of flavors would be extremely limited."

"Oh, well," Roman says and gives the stick a whiff. Then he gives it a bigger whiff.

"Anything?"

"I guess? It's different. I don't think pretzel sticks have a strong smell anyway, do they?"

"Go ahead and try it."

Roman nibbles the stick. They observe his jaw movements and listen to the muffled crunching of his teeth. He chews mechanically, much longer than anyone would need to. His brows raise just about to his hairline as he swallows.

"It's salty!" he announces excitedly. "I hate it! I can taste it! And I hate it!"

Roman tosses the rest of the stick in his mouth and plunders into the bag for more. Thomas and Logan watch incredulously as he polishes off the whole bag. Roman never stops telling them about how horrible they taste. He finishes the bag and smacks his mouth.

"Ugh, it's so dry!"

Thomas wordlessly retrieves Roman a cup of juice. Roman gleefully downs the glass in one go.

"That's so much better! What is this? It's so sweet!"

"Apple juice?"

"I love apple juice! Logan! I love apple juice!"

"Yes, I have gathered."

"I must tell all of my friends about this!"

That evening, they gather round the kitchen with everyone to taste test everything in Thomas's fridge and cabinets. If Thomas needed to go grocery shopping before, he certainly needs to after this. They have no limits to their stomach capacities. Patton eats a giant stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and claims he feels no fuller for the effort. Virgil scarfs down an entire tub of rocky road ice cream with such feral intensity that he's left abashed after.

"It was okay, I guess," Virgil says too nonchalantly.

"Who let this raccoon in here?" Janus comments, to which Virgil hisses.

"If we can eat things now, does that mean we'll need to shit?" Remus questions. He's found the pickle jar and is sharing with Logan. They seem to enjoy salty/sour flavors more. "Because then Virgil's gonna have the shits later."

"That was an intolerable amount of lactose," Logan agrees.

Roman whines in protest through a mouth full of pizza, "Must you speak of such crass things while we're eating?"

"It's not like we're real humans," Virgil says, but looks doubtfully at the empty ice cream container while holding his tummy.

Janus has discovered the beauty of wine and has been sipping religiously at a glass. "Real enough to eat."

"Are you feeling the effects of the alcohol?" Logan pauses to wonder.

"I don't think so, but I'm nothing if not determined."

"Spitters are quitters," Remus says, finding some kind of relevance with that train of thought to the current context. When Virgil smirks and says something about professionals gargling, Roman screeches like a banshee. Thomas thinks that is the point of Virgil's interference. He shares a fist bump with Remus.

"Anyway, back to our shit talking," Remus says peppily. Roman's face turns an impressive shade of red.

Janus snickers into his glass, "Oh I am here for shit talking. Who are we shit talking about?"

"Your mom!"

"How very original, Remus."

"Is it okay if I eat the rest of this peanut butter?" Patton asks Thomas. There's not much left in the jar anyway.

Thomas smiles. "Go for it, buddy."

Patton does a happy little shuffle dance and goes to town. The others go back to questioning if they will need to start using the bathroom now. Thomas asks what Patton thinks, since they're standing by each other and he hasn't been talking much.

Patton nods slowly, sagely. "Everybody poops."

As much as Roman is hilariously uncomfortable with the topic, everyone does share a curiosity to the limits of their corporealness. For the rest of the evening, they keep checking in with each other. "Need to poop yet?" "No, you?" "Nah, need to pee?" "Nah, but how would we know?" "It'd be instinctive." "You're instinctive." "Remus, please desist."

Thomas can confidentially say that he's never been a part of a more bizarre conversational topic.

For those at home wondering, none of them ever felt the urge to go. They are left to surmise that the food and drinks they ingest are entirely utilized with no leftover waste. Furthermore, alcohol has no affect, much to Janus's dismay. It doesn't stop him from trying.

Beyond food, Thomas tries to encourage the others to ask him for things they want. Something as simple as watching a movie is a challenge. If they sit down together to pick a movie, it always comes back to what does Thomas want to watch. And even when Thomas isn't watching TV or doing anything with his electronics, they will jump up from them as if electrocuted and ask him if he'd like the TV or computer.

Patton's the worst about it. Thomas nearly felt bad about telling him, "No, I'm good, you can keep watching whatever." It's like he can't believe he isn't monopolizing Thomas's belongings. So they get into "nice-offs" where they're trying to be courteous to each other. "No, you can." "No, you, I insist!" That sort of thing. There's an edge of panic to Patton when he does this.

If only this were as easy as handing him a stuffed bear.

After a few times, Thomas can't stand to see him this way and finally grabs the offered tv remote out of his hands. The brief relief that washes over Patton is replaced by confusion when Thomas sets the remote on the coffee table. Then confusion transforms into astonishment as Thomas grabs one of his hands in both of his.

"Patton, you're okay," Thomas tells him. "You're allowed to enjoy yourself. I don't always need the tv, and whenever I do want it, I promise I'll let you know."

Patton stares so hard at their joined hands that Thomas wonders if he can hear him. They haven't held hands since that day Patton cried. Haven't touched either. Thomas suspects...no, he knows it's a sore subject. He knows with Patton, and most of the others, maybe all of them? They've lacked human touch for so long that they don't know what to do with themselves whenever they receive it. They must crave it. Hell, Janus was brought to tears because Thomas touched his face.

It's another process though, another adjustment. It's a lot of responsibility placed on Thomas for these people he's just starting to know. He likes them, he does. He's caught off guard sometimes by how much he enjoys their company, the sparks they bring to his life as he learns more about them. It's not a bad thing by any means.

Thomas holds Patton's hand and hopes this is a good step. He caresses the top of Patton's hand with a thumb, and Patton's eyes flick, watching the movement.

"You're the priority though," Patton says softly, at a loss.

Thomas's heart breaks for them.

He leads Patton by the hand back to the couch. They sit together and Thomas gently nudges the remote into Patton's hand that he isn't holding.

"Sometimes, maybe. But right now? It's your time. What do you want to watch?"

With a subdued joy that Thomas hopes one day will have all the strength of a hurricane, Patton clicks through the apps and turns on 'Steven Universe'. Thomas sticks with him to watch. He's already seen it, but he'll watch it again any day. Plus, he doesn't want to take his hand away when Patton clutches so tightly.

They progress in paces of patience. Soon, Thomas will need to jump fully back into work now that he's recovered from his sickness. He's texted his team and he'll be meeting with them tomorrow.

The big question is, will his new roommates be able to interact with them?

"We should engage in preliminary testing," Logan suggests.

Roman cheers, "I concur! Why wait for tomorrow what you could do today?"

"Famous last words," Virgil quips.

"Then what do you suggest, Negative Nancy?"

"Why even try? If you never try, then you can never fail. If you never fail, then you won't be disappointed."

"Technically, he's not wrong," Logan admits.

"You're agreeing with him?!"

"I didn't say that. I am no defeatist. I don't fear failure. Indeed, I feel no sense of fear whatsoever."

"God I wish that were me," Thomas bemoans his introverted existence.

"How about I streak naked down the street?" Remus suggests. "That'll get some looks!"

Logan is not the only one who doesn't possess a sense of fear, apparently.

There's enough interest amongst the group to go forward with the testing today. Patton thanks Remus for his contribution but tries to let him down gently and say maybe another time. Roman supplies fanciful ideas of vigilante fighting. Even if bad guys can't see them, they can pretend Thomas has telekinesis powers and make him look cool by floating things at the enemy. Patton also thanks Roman for his contributions but tries to let him down gently as well.

"How about shopping?" Janus says. "I'm always a hoe for a shopping spree. Especially when it's someone else's money that's being spent."

"Thomas isn't some cash cow," Virgil reminds him with narrowed eyes.

"No, don't be silly, he's a cash man."

Before they can get into it, Thomas chimes in, "Sure, I can spare a bit. Where would you guys like to go?"

Predictably, Remus says a sex shop. For the first time, Thomas can kinda see how long-term exposure might render the others a little dismissive towards him. But it is a valid option! Thomas is a grown man, with grown man needs. He's just...not gonna be going to an adult store with people he just became friends with. That's like, level fifty in terms of friendship.

"How about a grocery store?" Logan says. "It would be a practical way to spend your money."

"That's his way of saying he wants more Crofters jam," Virgil translates. Logan doesn't spare him a glance and simply mutters, "Falsehood."

Thomas feels in a teasing mood, so he asks Virgil, "And what about you?"

"Me?" Virgil lifts a singular eyebrow. It's a thinner brow than Thomas's, as if he shapes them. Thomas can imagine him easily with an eyebrow piercing. It'd go great with his aesthetic.

Why is he thinking so much about Virgil's eyebrows?

Thomas inwardly shakes himself and plasters a smirk on his face. "Yeah, you. Do you want some more ice cream?"

Virgil gives a mixture of a scoff and a cough. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Spend your money however you want, Sanders."

"And that's Virgil's way of saying yes, he would love more ice cream," Janus translates.

Patton raises a hand. "Can we get more peanut butter?"

"And pickles?" Remus asks.

"Oh, how about pizza!" Roman says.

"Sure, anything you guys want," Thomas smiles, unable to hold himself back from wanting to indulge them.

Thomas hops in his car and drives to his local Walmart. Logan rides shotgun while Roman, Remus, and Patton squish together in the backseat. It's a twelve-minute ride that the three backseat passengers insist must be enjoyed with all the enthusiasm of an eight-hour road trip. They play car games to pass the time, and Thomas plays the radio for background noise. Logan points out a traffic light in disrepair before Thomas notices and reminds him to treat the intersection as a four-way stop.

They reach Walmart and it's not as dreadfully busy as it could be, but it's still Walmart. Thomas exits the car and trudges up to the store like a man going to war.

It takes him a bit to realize that the others have suddenly gone missing. Surrounded by strangers after spending over a week at home is a bit of a slap to the senses. Thomas is more troubled with securing a shopping cart and avoiding bumping into anyone. He surveys the store and debates where to start before heading towards the very back of the grocery section, intending to work his way up.

By the time he's grabbing a pack of butter, Thomas notices the immediate quiet. There's a chill that's not coming from the cooler beside him. He cranes his neck around to look over the buzzing masses. People pass this way and that. A lady with five kids getting milk. An old man perusing the discount baked goods rack. A couple heading towards the deli counter. More and more inconsequential bodies flit across his vision. And in the middle of the aisle, as if the rest of the world falls away and his eyes are drawn to him, there stands Virgil.

He stands alone, the brightness of his purple patches standing out amongst the crowd. Calmly, he watches people pass by him. No one looks his way, not even once. A teenager passes right through him on her way to catch up with her parents. Virgil's lips twitch up and he turns to meet Thomas's gaze.

Thomas is held captive in the moment. Virgil looks at him, and there's no guessing what's on his mind. Thomas knows. He knows it in his heart.

Virgil shrugs helplessly. They gave it a shot. This changes nothing. He'll tell himself he doesn't want to be perceived anyway while ignoring that little piece inside that pleads otherwise. That piece that's been waiting for so long for someone to just look and notice and not act like he isn't there, like he doesn't exist.

It's a lonely thing to watch the world go by and be told that you can't partake.

As much as it hurts, it's okay, because Thomas at least sees him for who he is. It's enough.

Yet again, Thomas thinks they deserve so much more.

***

The ride back to his apartment is significantly less noisy. Thomas catches glimpses of Virgil and Janus in the rearview mirror sitting in the backseat, neither talking, both looking out their respective windows. They disappear once Thomas parks the car, and Patton and Logan join him while he empties the trunk of its groceries. They're also far too quiet for comfort as they help carry bags inside.

The next day rolls by, Thomas meets with his team, and Roman lingers in the background, an unseen guest. Thomas can see his wistful smile as he watches Thomas interact with his friends. There's longing there to be included. When no one's looking, Thomas offers him a wave. It's enough of an acknowledgement that Roman perks up and swings his feet a bit where he sits on a table.

The meeting goes well. They've brainstormed some future video ideas and have a shooting schedule mapped out. Best of all, no one looks at Thomas like he's a walking hazard. They seem to be relieved that he's recovered and well rested and more responsive than he's been in a long time. Thomas returns home afterwards, and life goes on.

There's not much in the way of testing discussed after that, for a while at least. The previous lack of success is disheartening, and really though, what else is there to test? They are real people to Thomas only.

And Thomas would be a liar if he doesn't admit that he occasionally speculates if this makes him clinically insane. As real as they are to him, no one else can see or interact with them. Doesn't that check the boxes on a lot of psych evaluation tests?

If it's a form of insanity, it's a relatively mild one in terms of negative impact. It could be a lot worse. He's sure Logan could grant him some neat facts to put it all in perspective. That would involve telling Logan about his concerns revolving whether they are real or not. He doesn't want him to think he's invalidating his existence.

Isn't he though? By just questioning this, isn't there a part of his mind that still can't wrap around this? What more can he do to prove to himself that they truly exist?

Without conversing to the others about it, Thomas discreetly slips out his phone and snaps a picture of Remus. He's just sitting on the living room floor, swaying back and forth absent-mindedly. You can see the corner of the entertainment center in the picture. It's not a remarkable picture by any means and doesn't have the best lighting, but Remus brings a sense of peculiarity with his dark prince outfit.

The picture is taken with none the wiser. Thomas purses his lips and stares at his phone screen. He taps his fingers on the back of the case.

Remus's figure never fades. It's definitely a picture of him. Now what does he do with it?

He can send it to someone. Just to see if they can see an image of the others. If not in person, maybe they can be viewed through technological means? But who should he send it to? Not his brothers. Or his parents. Hmm, he can't think of a friend he can send it to without garnering a series of questions for an explanation. Well, he can possibly play it off. But what if he can't?

He scrolls through his contact list before spying his godson's name. Gavin sends him random stuff all the time. Thomas can just tell him it's a meme trend or something.

Trying not to overthink it, Thomas sends the pic along with a question, What do you see in this picture?

A few very nail-biting minutes later, Gavin responds. Is that ur house?

That isn't...the worst response.

Yeah lol

Ur tv cord? Idk is something I'm missing?

Yeah, the invisible man. You can't see him?

Nah, he invisible.

Darn, I told him to turn off that setting before I took the pic. Maybe next time.

Gavin sends back a laughing emoji.

That settles that. If Gavin could see Remus, he would have said something about his outfit or ask who he is or why he's at Thomas's apartment. The kid asks a lot of questions, and to be fair, Remus is very questionable in general.

Thomas doesn't let the others know of his discovery. What they don't know can't hurt them, right?

It turns out to be truer than Thomas can imagine. Curiosity killed the cat. Ignorance is bliss. Be careful what you wish for.

While no one has spoken of the discoveries from the Walmart outing, it doesn't mean it hasn't been on their minds. In fact, Logan in particular has taken notes to record the aspects of their existence. He approaches Thomas and shows him some of his theories and hypothesis.

"I would like to attempt a new test, if you would be so inclined," Logan says, and while he holds his posture well, Thomas senses an underlying nervousness to him.

Thomas doesn't want to deny him this, not when they've struggled with learning how to reach out to him.

"What do you have in mind?" Thomas asks.

They relocate to the backyard. Everyone else joins them. They probably would have anyway, but Logan specifically requests that everyone convene together.

"Are we finally running into oncoming traffic?" Remus asks excitedly, bouncing on his heels.

"Not today, Remus. I have devised an experiment to test the boundaries of our physical attachment to Thomas. Prior to Thomas's illness, we could not stray beyond roughly eighty feet from Thomas. When arriving to this distance, we experience a tethering sensation, as if we cannot walk any further. With the increase to our corporeal prowess, I suggest we ascertain whether this distance remains or if it has increased."

"So you just want us to go for a walk?" Patton asks.

"Oh, why didn't you just say that, Isaac Nerdton?" Roman scoffs.

Logan adjusts his glasses. "Because I wanted all parties to know precisely what– okay, fine. We are going for a walk. But!" He claps his hands to accentuate his point. "This will be regulated so that we can account for all variables. I suggest we test one subject at a time to calculate if there are any differences between distance amongst us."

Thomas raises his hand and waits for Logan to call on him. "So what do I do?"

"You just stand there."

"Cool, I can do that. I'm good at standing."

"Who's gonna go first?" Virgil asks. He shifts his gaze between everyone to see if someone will volunteer.

Patton shrugs. "I could, I guess?"

"What would this prove anyway?" Janus comments, snide in the way he checks his nails through his glove. It would be a funny image if he didn't sound genuinely dismissive of the whole affair. "This won't change anything. Even if we miraculously can wander off to new horizons, Thomas is still the only person who can see us."

"We could break into people's houses and steal their stuff," Remus says.

"Let's not take other people's things," Patton says. "We wouldn't want people to come steal from Thomas, would we? It's not right."

"Morality only matters to those who have a place in society. Last I checked, we don't."

Patton deflates and looks at Janus with a pained expression. "I think it still matters how you treat people..."

"Good for you," Janus says, sickly sweet.

Virgil steps between the two of them. "Okay, what crawled in your ass and died?"

"Cynicism? Disillusionment? A reality check? Take your pick."

Virgil growls and looks at Logan. "You know what? I'll go."

"Wait, wait, let's not start things off angry," Thomas urges. Virgil has begun walking, so Thomas skitters up behind him, grasping on to his jacket. Virgil halts but doesn't turn around.

"This is merely for educational purposes. I did not expect this to warrant a strong emotional reaction."

Roman claps a hand on Logan's shoulder. "Not your fault, Specs. Someone must have pissed in Janus's cheerios this morning."

Janus crosses his arms and puts on an unaffected tone, "Do whatever you wish. Don't let me stop you."

Thomas shares a look with Logan. "I'd like to go through with the test because it's important to Logan. Whether what we discover is any different than what you guys are used to, it doesn't matter. What matters is that it's important to Logan to find out."

There's a brief softening of the eyes behind Logan's glasses. He shuffles quickly with his notebook and pen and then unceremoniously dumps them into Roman's arms.

Roman sputters, "What–?"

"I'll do it," Logan announces. "After all, this is my hypothesis. I will take the initiative and be the first to go."

Logan gestures for Thomas to step aside to the "starting point". Thomas lets go of Virgil hesitantly, but Virgil doesn't protest or turn to look. Thomas shuffles over to the side in the grass and holds still while Logan stands beside him.

"I will count my steps as I go along to measure the distance. Once I reach a point I can no longer move forward, I'll return."

"Okay, easy peasy," Thomas says with false cheer.

Janus doesn't debate any more. Patton offers no assurances. Remus doesn't interrupt. Roman holds the notebook stiffly. And Virgil's head only moves as Logan walks by him. He watches as Logan treks across the grass behind the apartment complex.

Logan keeps his head bowed, watching his steps with careful attentiveness. He crosses the road and carries on through more grass. He rapidly approaches the tree line that begins there on the other side.

"Anyone wanna make bets?" Remus asks. The suggestion falls on deaf ears, but Patton does come over to stand beside him and hold his hand. It must not be a frequent occurrence because Remus glances down at him in surprise but doesn't discourage it.

For Thomas's part, his eyes are glued to Logan's back. His form is getting smaller, more distant.

"That's more than eighty feet," Virgil murmurs, loud in the quiet. His hand scratches at his neck, and when that doesn't seem to do anything for him, he shakes out his hands. Then he shakes out his hands again.

Roman turns to gauge Virgil. He frowns at what he sees, though Thomas can't see Virgil's face from this angle. "You good, Virge?"

"I don't like this," Virgil admits. His foot begins tapping a mad dance into the ground.

"I don't either," Patton drones, morose. Perhaps he's sensitive from Janus's remarks.

Logan treads into the woods. They can see his black polo and blue jeans through the spindly tree trunks. At first, he's there, but quickly he's swallowed into the vegetation.

Virgil runs his fingers through his hair and blows out a stream of air. "What if he gets lost?"

Roman laughs, "Get lost? He's going in a straight line, Virge."

"What if something happens to him? What if– what if– I don't like this."

"I thought you were on board with this."

Virgil doesn't answer. He starts pacing back and forth, and Thomas can see his expression now in his peripheral. His brows are knotted, eyes too wide. His pacing becomes erratic.

"Hey, hey, don't do that. You're just gonna work yourself up," Roman calls to him, coming over to stop him. Virgil tries to walk around him, but Roman blocks his path.

"Why didn't one of us go with him? We should have gone with him!"

"Virgil, please, it'll be alright. Pat, may I have an emergency dose of positivity over here?"

"I don't like this," Patton repeats, and his tone is even more dejected. He holds onto Remus's arm with both hands. He leans into him, shaking at the arm insistently. "I don't like this."

"...Patton?" Remus hums in confusion. He looks around to the others to see if they're witnessing how close to crying Patton seems, but Thomas's eyes can't leave the tree line where Logan vanished.

"We have to go get him. Please, we have to–"

"Stormcloud, please," Roman soothes, and Virgil clings to the front of his tunic like a drowning man. His breaths are coming shorter and shorter, his words jumbling amongst the gasps. Roman stands there, dumbfounded. "Uh, Remus?"

"Kinda busy with Pat," Remus says, watching as Patton unravels. Tears cascade down his face and the first whimper of a sob comes out. "Okay, what the fuck is going on?"

"He's gonna die, he's gonna die-" Virgil rants over and over and he launches into a full-blown panic attack. "Janus, Janus, help!"

"Please!" Patton wails and falls to his knees. Remus barely manages to catch him and guide him down safely.

Thomas's feet move without intention. He takes one heavy step, then another, movements sluggish and wooden.

Janus is there suddenly, hand at his elbow to stop his forward momentum. Thomas is barely conscious of the peering eyes, one human and one snake. Janus glances between a hysterical Virgil and a sobbing Patton and turns to Thomas.

"Thomas, can you hear me?" he asks.

Thomas can, but it's like he's under water. He tries to step forward again, but Janus won't let him. Thomas feels the resistance as if steel cables are latching onto him with grappling hooks. Serrated edges sink into his flesh. No, no, it's not from outside. It's inside. There's a pull inside him, and it tugs.

"Janus!" Virgil begs.

"Please!" Patton cries.

"What the hell is wrong with them?!"

"I don't know! It's not like this has ever happened before!"

"Janus, what is Thomas doing?"

The words drift over Thomas, like seafoam floating by in a vast sea. There are more important matters to attend, like how he can't see Logan. If Logan is gone, then that means–

"Thomas, listen to me," someone says, and there are hands cupping his face. Thomas can't feel them, yet he knows they're there. "You have to shut this down. You have to stop this. Now."

But Logan is gone. He's gone, and Thomas is left bereft without him. The earth beneath his feet tremors, and the sky splits open in a downpour. The sun will fall and set the world ablaze. And Thomas feels the ache building up in his chest with mind-numbing certainty.

"Thomas!" the voice yells at him, hands shaking him. Thomas looks up into a face that he knows. He knows that face. He knows, he knows, he knows. How could he not? That's why it's so familiar. Why couldn't he see it before?

"I'm sorry," Thomas whispers.

His chest splinters in agony. Fear bleeds out abundant. Grief ravages his heart.

Thomas falls to the ground screaming.

[aurorawritesromance]

WHAT REMAINS UNSPOKEN [CH10]

ALL CHAPTERS HERE.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ PREPARATION // ELIAS ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

We spent the week preparing like it was war.

Quiet tension stretched over six days, sharp as a guitar string. A slow erosion of normalcy disguised as logistics—burner phones, untraceable vehicles, and the art of becoming someone else. As I’m standing in the precinct’s back office, staring at a coffee ring bleeding into a stack of useless memos, everything in me feels like it’s running two beats behind.

Kelsi’s voice echoes from the server room, a muffled swear and the clatter of keys. She’s been living off energy drinks and spite since Monday, building a backstopped digital identity we can’t afford to screw up. The fake Facebook persona—Claire Reeves—is Kelsi’s masterpiece after all: vulnerable enough to be believable and desperate enough to turn up at a cult party.

And Dalia... She’s changed. I watched her dye her hair in the office bathroom four nights ago, her signature platinum blonde tips vanishing under a coat of chestnut brown. Soft, warm, forgettable. She wore plastic gloves and the kind of expression that dares you to offer sympathy. Her reflection in the mirror almost looked younger, eyes shining brighter with hope for what the future may hold. Someone halfway between who she was and who she’d want to be.

Dalia scrubbed herself out in layers, piece by piece. Neutral colors. Thin, lived-in clothing. Faded denim. A canvas bag with frayed straps. She even practiced how Claire might walk—shoulders slightly hunched, like she was afraid to take up space. Voice pitched softer, less command, more need. I watched her rehearse three different greetings to strangers and I couldn’t say a word. Because it worked.

And that scares the hell out of me.

I shift into a chair, stretch out my leg. My knee pops. Another reminder I’m not twenty anymore, another thing I won’t say out loud.

Desks hum with screensavers and dying hope. It’s so bloody quiet I can hear the hiss of Kelsi’s monitors and the slow tick of the analog clock on the wall. Each second lands like a drop of water from a faucet you thought you fixed months ago. Then the door opens for what I’ve been waiting for.

Dalia walks in, and every thought in my head stops. She’s completely transformed into Claire now. Her jeans are faded like they’ve seen a few too many laundromat cycles. The hem of her cream-colored tee pokes out beneath a muted pink cardigan, a mother’s softness stitched into something tactical. Her eyes find me and don’t flinch—it’s in those hazel eyes that I still feel her, the way she looks at me with soft familiarity, every blink a reassurance she will be alright. There she is. My Dalia.

The steel beneath all that fake cotton.

“Morning,” she says. It’s barely a breath, but it carries more weight than it should because she says it like Claire would.

I nod, hands slightly trembling. “Morning.”

She scans me, pausing for a second at the crooked line of my collar. “Did you sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

She half-smiles in a friendly way. Her bag slips off her shoulder with a whisper of worn canvas and lands with a soft thud. I want to say something—to offer her a line, a tether, something steady—but the words snag in my throat. Instead, I watch her inventory the day. I know this routine.

“Claire Reeves has two kids,” she says, almost idly. “One ten, one six. She lives outside town and works nights. Likes candles. Doesn’t drink. She’s been in three spiritual groups in the past year, all for grief support. Lost her mom to breast cancer. Used to believe in God. Not anymore.”

I know this of course, it’s just more rehearsal, more drilling, more making sure there aren’t any hiccups. I exhale. “Sounds like someone I’d believe.”

“That’s the point,” Dalia says.

Footsteps approach and Kelsi rounds the corner, holding a tablet like it’s made of glass and bad intentions. Her hair’s tied up messily, still wearing yesterday’s hoodie.

“We’re good,” she says without preamble. “Tracker’s live. The burner’s synced.”

Kelsi hands over the burner phone. “No signal in the Dunhaven Glade area, so stay visible until you’re in.”

I glance at Dalia. “We taking the rental?”

She nods. “Keys are in my jacket.”

We don’t talk as we move toward the exit. The sky is still bleeding light—navy blue giving way to dull gray. The world feels unfinished. At the car, she hands me the keys.

“You want me driving?”

She slides into the passenger seat without answering. “You chew your lip when you’re nervous.”

I stare at her. “You notice that?”

“Of course I do.”

I don’t reply, just start the engine. The road hums beneath us, low and steady, as we pull away from the precinct and toward the dark line of woods beyond the horizon.

Claire Reeves has never been to Dunhaven Glade. But tonight, she walks into something none of us can name.

And I’m not sure if she’ll come out whole.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The road narrows as the woods thicken. What passes for a shoulder is just churned-up dirt, flecked with old beer cans. Pines rise tall and close, their trunks straight as prison bars, needles whispering in a language I don’t trust. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other loose in my lap. Dalia doesn’t speak but her eyes track the trees like they might peel themselves open and let something out. She’s doing that thing again—inventorying without moving, counting every turn, every shadow, every gap between branches.

I glance at her once, quickly.

The dye’s darker in this light. Brown verging on auburn, tucked into a messy twist that could pass for rushed or indifferent, depending on who’s watching. Her jaw is set, lips twitching faintly with whatever thought she’s refusing to say out loud.

The road curves left. Then again.

We’re nearly there.

The GPS dies just before the marker, but we find it anyway—the turnoff is unpaved, a break in the tree line marked by a wooden post with the numbers 436 burned into the grain. No signage, just a gravel path swallowed by foliage. I slow the car. The tires crunch as we roll over broken stone and half-dead leaves. Up ahead, a long rectangular cabin sits back from the road, low to the ground, camouflaged by time and rot. Windows glazed with road dust and the kind of grime you can only get from disuse.

Wind brushes the trees and makes the building groan.

“This is it?” I ask.

Dalia nods. “Yeah. It’s under the fake name.”

She’s already unbuckling before the car fully stops. I kill the engine and step out into a silence too clean to trust, only the dull percussion of the wind and a single bird somewhere high above, calling once, then vanishing into the hush. The air smells like damp earth and pine sap. There’s a taste to it—like rain that hasn’t fallen yet.

I pop the trunk. Dalia shoulders her bag like it’s nothing. Her eyes linger on the treetops for a beat too long.

“What’re you thinking?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Thinking about how fast things vanish out here.”

Well, that’s reassuring.

We walk up the creaking steps together. She has the keys. Slides one into the lock, jiggles it once, twice—then the door clicks open.

Inside, the cabin smells like dust and cleaner, the kind of chemical freshness that covers up everything except time. The main room is sparse. A couch that’s seen too many summers and a table with two chairs that don’t match. The floorboards flex under our weight. A kitchenette sits to the right—no microwave, but there’s a two-burner stovetop and a fridge humming faintly. There’s a window over the sink. It doesn’t look out at anything but trees. Creeps me out.

Dalia drops her bag near the wall, then disappears down the hallway, her boots quiet on the floor.

I stay where I am. The couch groans as I lower myself into it, elbows resting on my knees. I reach into my coat for the burner phone. I scroll back through the Facebook group posts. Most are generic pictures of gatherings—people in loose clothing standing in groups, their faces blurred by dusk and distance. The captions are always vague:

“He moves through us.”

”The cleansing begins with surrender.”

And always that phrase.

“The vessel suffers for our salvation.”

I don’t know what they’re expecting Claire Reeves to bring to this, but it’s more than a desperate prayer or a notebook full of grief. Dalia reappears a few minutes later, pulling her hoodie off and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“One room’s clean enough,” she says. “Water runs. No signal, like I said.”

I nod once. “Cozy.”

“We’ve stayed worse.”

She’s right, we have. Motels where the light flickered nonstop and the carpet smelled like mildew. Cases that dragged us through corpses and suspects and nights we couldn’t wash off. But this is different. Dalia doesn’t sit, just pulls her phone from her pocket and checks it instinctively, like maybe the rules will have changed in the last five seconds.

Then she glances at me. “What?”

I shake my head. “Just wondering when we became the kind of people who pack for cult retreats.”

She exhales something like a laugh. “We’ve got this. Still have time to scope the grounds, learn the terrain.”

I nod, pushing up from the couch. “And if you go in?”

“When I go in,” she corrects.

Her eyes find mine.

That’s all I get. That’s all I need.

Outside, the woods sway like something sleeping with one eye open.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The night settles like smoke in the lungs.

I sit at the small table by the window, staring into the trees. Dalia hasn’t said much since dinner—if reheated canned soup and dry crackers count as that. She’s mentally building a map of the glade and every point of potential entry. Her version of comfort.

I lean back in the chair, let my eyes lose focus on the glass. My hand hovers near the burner phone. Still no signal.

Dalia emerges from the bedroom, hoodie swapped for a loose black t-shirt and worn sweats. She moves like she doesn’t want to disturb the air. Her hair’s down—messy from running her hands through it too many times—and she carries a folder tucked under one arm.

She sets it on the table. Sits.

“Floor plan,” she says. “Best I could make out.”

She sketches it fast with a pencil, enough detail to outline the glade’s clearing, the slope behind it, the old fire pit, and two smaller trails leading into the trees.

“There’s no fencing,” she mutters. “But they’ve been using stone markers.”

I study the crude map. She says everything like it’s only logistics. This is what unnerves me about her—how easily she moves between fear and function.

“Do you think they’re planning something violent?” I ask.

She looks up. Her eyes are dark in the half-light. “I think if they weren’t, they wouldn’t hide.”

That lands hard. She leans forward, fingertip tracing the drawn trail. “We won’t get close without them seeing. The way they’ve laid it out… it’s a funnel. Forces you into the open.”

“We’ll adjust.”

She leans back. “I’ll have to go in blind.”

I hesitate. My mouth opens. Closes.

Say something.

Instead, I grab the flashlight from the counter and stand. “I’m going to do a walk of the perimeter.”

She doesn’t stop me. There is a hum of faint acknowledgment, already studying the paper again.

Outside, the air is colder. The trees are louder now, wind shifting through the branches like breath over bone. I walk slow, sweeping the beam of light across the underbrush, watching for prints, for trash, for signs of anyone else moving through here.

There’s nothing. But that’s what bothers me.

By the time I return, Dalia’s dozed off on the couch. Not fully asleep—her breathing’s too shallow, her posture too tense—but her eyes are closed. The folder’s still in her lap. I ease it away gently and place it on the table. I stand there for a minute, looking at the shape of her jaw softened by exhaustion. That ever-present tightness between her brows finally relaxed. There’s something about this version of her—unguarded in the flicker of the cabin’s yellow lamp—that makes something shift in me.

I take the folded throw blanket from the back of the couch and place it over her gently.

The woods are still awake.

So I stay awake, too.

CHAPTER 11 >>

[ostensiblyanimated]

This brings us to another characteristic trait of Yoshizawa: the sheer creativity represented not just in form, but in material. SHAFT’s most visually radical days, represented by the likes of Oishi himself, are behind them… but Yoshizawa never got that memo, because the more leeway she’s been granted, the more she has emphasized live-action footage and unconventional analog materials. For one, Yoshizawa often leans on the inherent link between time and tangible elements. As something that physically exists, those real materials evoke the passage of time in a more direct way than intangible animation could—hence her usage of time-lapses and seasonally coded live-action reels, analog drawings, paper cutouts, and so on.

new article from Sakugabooru about the production of Off & Monster Season! goes into the history of the anime and discusses what makes Yoshizawa unique as a director for this series. it's long, and well worth a read, as they go into quite some depth about what makes this new season stand out so much

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

11, 36, 57 :D

Hi!! Thank you for the ask :D

11- What’s something you saved up for and then regretted buying?

Mattress that we weren't careful enough reading the specifications for, which turned out to be way too soft for us (back sleepers). We did exchange it for a better mattress, so no money was in fact lost (but the new mattress was more expensive so we had to pay for the difference).

36- Do you keep a daily journal or agenda?

BOY DO WE. We have to, or we forget everything we're meant to do ever (including basic things like. Eating.) as well as everything we've ever done (keeping track of paperwork? Personal projects? In JUST our brain? No can do. We have to have an external brain or we figuratively perish -- digital brain also does not work well enough, for this purpose we prefer analog.)

Each year we get two planners from Hobonichi: a Cousin and a Weeks Mega.

The Cousin serves for general scheduling (both weekly and daily), habit & general wellbeing tracking, budgeting, evening journaling.

The Weeks Mega is for keeping track of everything non-routine or spoon-expensive we actually have done (including a very beautiful writing progress tracker); when we last showered/changed our bedsheets/etc; what meds we took and when; freelancing stuff (when we have the spoons which we currently don't); also recipes, therapy memos, dream journal, general note dump, and various other things that don't fit elsewhere that we do need to have at hand somewhere.

Here they are in action:

Now this might sound like A Lot, but we really do need the extra scaffolding to function/remember things at all, and two planners is nothing considering that, when we settled on this setup a few years ago, we were looking to condense FIVE different notebooks and THREE apps into something less scattered. Finally achieved planner peace, we've had this setup since 2021 with only minor adjustments needed.

(We also have a five-year journal that asks you a question a day and you can answer in a few lines, but we fill that one in for fun, we don't need it as an external brain the way we do the other two.)

57- Do you tend to bring an appetizer, entree, dessert, or drinks to a potluck?

Appetiser. Nobody ever thinks to bring salty snacks to these things! But we love salty snacks. Sometimes supplemented with like, cucumber sticks.

[Ask meme for people in their 30s]

[cowboylikedean]

Haylor makes me so sad because she wrecked him… but she did so because he never realize she was actually as in if not more in love as he was. He couldn’t see a reality where he had her heart… he idolized her, true, but he probs also still was grasping with his own fame, and his own value as a person. In what universe would someone like her, older, wiser, and so pretty and famous would be so in love with him.

Their timing was the worst.

And yet also… is that a surprise. That he didn’t got the memo? Seeing all the reactions even from some haylors after hearing the vault songs were like wow, guess she really did love him…. For years there was an agreement of how much of an impact she had on him, but not as much of the impact he had on her… and it just breaks my heart when I think about it

i know. i knew that it meant something to her, and i said that for years. but i did always think that this hit him harder because it was his first love. but the truth is it fucking smashed and destroyed her, she was fucking broken. if you hold onto someone for years, and the hope that they'll get their shit together and love you the way you need, when they don't, it's going to crush you.

and yeah, it makes sense but that doesn't make it hurt less. and it wasn't all him and his not knowing how to deal with his fame, again, she was not a strong communicator either. so they both just couldn't deal right. and it ended up hurting them both so hard and bad and fucked them up for years.

i kinda think there's something to be said there that sums up to "ouch."

this story is tragic and beautiful and sad, and also gives you whiplash and spins you around confused about where you are and what just happened. her analogy to wonderland is perfect, I think.

[vulpinroid]

July 21, 1998 (Tuesday) Raccoon City, Missouri

Brian Irons was already feeling the beginnings of indigestion. He grumbled softly and reached for the intercom. He squashed a clubbed finger into the microphone button and held it down.

“Christina-” Irons grumbled.

“Sir?” A young female voice came back over the speaker grille. Irons froze for a moment, then he silently cursed himself for the slip.

“Apologies, Rita. Old habits die hard.” Irons sighed and massaged his stomach. “Do you know where I can find a bottle of Gastropep?”

“In your drawer sir, the big one on the right side.” Officer Rita Phillips’ smile could be felt through the speaker. “You need a glass of water, sir?”

“Yes, please.” Irons leaned back in his seat. He reached down and opened the aforementioned drawer, grabbed the bottle of purple liquid and took out a shot glass, pouring it full of the Umbrella-made liquid medication. Irons knocked it back and coughed softly, splattering some on his bushy mustache. He wiped it along his sleeve and scowled at the remnants of previous purple smears. This was getting to be too much, maybe it was time to lose some weight like Dr. Bard had been pressing him to.

He opened another drawer and took out a cigar as well as a cutter, absently fidgeting with the cutter before slipping the uncut end of the cigar into the circular hole in the middle. One flex of a finger was all it took to make the uncut tip flop into the ashtray. Like a head in a guillotine. Irons liked that analogy. In fact, it got him thinking about making a special cutter modeled on the device. It’d go hand in hand with the art collection here.

He lifted up a memo from his inbox and was in the process of flipping it over, reaching for a pencil when Rita Phillips knocked on the door. Irons looked up and gestured, leaning back. “Come in!”

Rita smiled at him and noticed the memo as it was framed in the light of his green vintage-style banker’s lamp. She set a glass of water down on a RCPD coaster, then set a bottle of ginger ale down beside it. “Ah, that came for you by fax this afternoon-” Rita murmured, reaching up to run a hand through her short blonde hair. “Looked pretty important, it came from the mayor’s number.”

Irons grunted as he took a greedy sip of water. “And you didn’t tell me this until now because?”

“You were out at lunch, sir. Slipped my mind if I’m to be honest.”

“Goddamn it, Rita!” Irons’ fingers clenched on the glass. “Well, that’s what I get for having to rely on a cop to be a secretary.” He felt his face grow hot.

“I’m sorry, sir!” Rita shrank back while Irons seethed. He pointed to the door. Then he flipped the memo around and felt his blood pressure hit the roof.

Brian, I was promised results on these murders and you’ve only just now assigned STARS to them? The press is having a field day and Cortini is sniffing around. My hand is forced, I’m bringing something new in, I’m giving you one last chance before I give assent to Cortini to take over. Not that I really have to but the man is snorting and stamping his hooves at the starting gate. Don’t even try to start a jurisdictional pissing match with him, you’ll lose and he has two more years in his term and use this to get himself re-elected in 2000. You could pretty much kiss your campaign goodbye there no matter how big of a war-chest Rainshield gives you.

Normally I would try to use something in-house but frankly this is not something that Rainshield specializes in, it’s not like it’s corporate espionage. As it happens, Donald Johnson was the one who came to me with the idea. Division president of Security Concepts for Omni Consumer Products. They’ve just finished field testing of their new RoboCop RC-2000 and offered us a lease which won’t affect your ‘Special Expenditures’ budget category too badly, at least the faster this gets wrapped up.

It’ll arrive tomorrow. Since we’re on a barebones lease, we’re getting the unit, basic equipment and a car for it but they won’t staff a technician. So put someone with some brains on it. May as well clear out the old autopsy room.

Warmest regards, Michael Warren Office of the Mayor Raccoon City, MO

“Warmest regards,” Irons growled, clenching the memo and balling it up. He threw it at the trash can but watched it sail over. “Goddamn it!” He thumbed the intercom. “Rita!”

“Sir?” There was hesitation in her voice.

“I want you and Ryman to take whoever you need to from the custodial staff and clear out the autopsy room. Tables, all of that shit, I want it out and I want that room scrubbed and cleaned by tomorrow morning.”

“Sir, I-” More hesitation.

“Get it done!” Irons roared.

[applejamzscribblez]

tagged by @theaistired to shuffle my music and post the 10 first songs!! :o

1: sedona - sir chloe (love this song!!! sir chloe needs way more listeners i stg)

2: crazy chicks - ken ashcorp (a recent find, i <3 electronic music so much)

3: it's just a phase - jules bonnot (THE CHORUS OF THIS SONG <3333)

4: musique non stop - kraftwerk (i do this thing where i record music i hear out in public and then just forget abt it, so i found it again when looking thru my voice memos lol)

5: anathema - sweet spine (no words. incredible song.)

6: wet mulch - equipment (mid western emo be like)

7: digital silence - peter mcpoland (i have been. influenced.)

8: analog fight - m4x (<33)

9: killbot! - chloe moriondo (CHLOEEEEEE!!)

10: gorilla - little simz (little simz is everything to me fr)

tagging @poetunias and literally anyone who sees this!!! <33