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uhhhandskullanon · 1 year ago

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ISTANBUL (NOT CONSTANINOPLE) - THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS . yandere platonic fyolai DOA + ADA x reader fic NOTES (part 3 : spoilers for future part :3) . possible spoilers for ch. 57+, ep. 42+, and kamui identity part one | part two

❝even old new york, was once new amsterdam...❞

reader jumps off building and starts doing sm crazy parkour shi from balcony to balcony (learned from time w agency)

reaches floor n SPEEDS AWAY like a PUSSY /j

fyodorat and nikolalallala come too late n they see reader speeding off wo sparing them another glance

get very angrye

two bfs have angrery doa meeting

reader has some plot bullshit sense of direction and finds ranpo (yippee >< !!)

ranpo + poe + reader save dilf man

while this happen other doa member get obsessed w reader too (oof sucks to suck LSOERR)

sigma > mutual feeling of being trapped w crazy homosexuals makes him bond w u despite never once have spoken to u

bram > idfk pretend he sees shi thru the vamps n he sees u n u remind him of liek some long time friend reincarnation shit like w aya idfk

kamui/fu(c)kuchi > ermm well so like yeah idk ill make sm bs up later

reader meets up w kunikissdaman n liek idk fluff moment yay

disaster😱!!!

reader = kidnapped by vampire

ada = chaos

fyodor = jail

dazai = jail

dazai v fyodor evil discussion ovr reader

ermmm reader get dragged to leik merusault bc fukuchi n bram wanna meet them

sigma finds them halfway

gains readers trust via half-truths

reader gets dragged awya AGAON

meets bram > seems cool

meet fukuchi > hates but hifes it bcc no wanna die

thats all i got for now JSJSJ

❝...why they changed it, i can't say, people just liked it better that way!❞

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hashbrowne08 · 9 months ago

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Are you ever washing the dishes in the afternoon, your favourite song playing on the speaker, you sing along while an idea starts to form in your head

There is a man. He lives in a house. His house is ever changing yet he is eternally the same, he sings along to what once was an instrument then a gramophone then a radio and finally it is now something new. He walks through his house the chairs now being modern after what once was no longer is "modern"

An eternal man in an ever changing yet equally everlasting home, for what once was a prison became a house,and what once was a house became his "forever home"

He did not choose his home nor his oh so long "blessing" his one gift is the growth of the prison,for what once was will never be again at yet always is,for what once was will now age and change into what soon will be.

And then... The song ends, you finish the dishes, but

The story remains

The story stays in your mind and you cradle it, you lament for you have no crib for this "child" and so you wait, wait for time to pass, for the proper time to release this burden from it' unfeeling prison

But as you release it you fear, what will happen to it? where will it go? Why can't you let it go? You saw it as a burden didn't you? So why do you cling to this strange story that never existed

And then... It's gone out of your hands and Into the melting pot,the cauldron, the archive that is here.

#holy shit #its sooo late #im tired #and slightly kooky #this might just happen every so often sos #goodnight

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inkskinned · 1 year ago

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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.