#trembling essence visual novel

[ebonysplendor]

Trembling Essence (Extended Demo)🌲

TL;DR: Noah is cute and all, but what isn't cute is the fact that he wants us to stay holed up in this mouldy ass house with him. Like, I get that you live around, or possibly in, a swamp and everything, but damn, bitch, you live like this...?

Game Link: https://zombeebunnie.itch.io/trembling-essence-extended-demo

Notable Features: Self-Insert, Yandere LI, Choice-heavy, HP Bar, Affinity Bar, Gender Neutral MC Spiciness: 0/5 -- Unfortunately, because this man is fine as hell... LI Red Flags: 1.5/5 -- Pretty bossy, pretty moody, and a lil' sassy, but other than, pretty solid dude (so far)

Wanna know more? Well, let's get into it!

So, listen. I have been meaning to finish and get this posted for like three, maybe four, or possibly even five weeks now, and damn it, I'm finally going to, so overlook the excessive grammar errors or whatever; I was lowkey rushing lol. This ain't about that though; it's about this visual novel, and let me tell you, I think it's really good, and it's super promising so far.

I know, I know, I know; I say that about every game but hear me out!

If you've read my reviews before, then you know that there are certain qualities about a visual novel that just scratch my brain in a particular way and absolutely ruin me in the most perfect way possible. One of those things is a choice heavy game. As I've said many a times, I am an absolute slut for a choice heavy game. It is something about every decision that you make mattering in the most detrimental way possible, bonus points if the consequence isn't immediate. Like, yes, make me hesitate and overthink if I should have waffles or cold pizza for breakfast, dev daddy...maker mommy...program parent? Program parent doesn't have as 18+ of a ring to it, admittedly, but we'll make it work.

Anyways, as I mentioned, the game is super good, and as far as I can tell, it's pretty choice heavy. Like, I'll play a route damn near the same way, but respond differently to one thing, and there's a whole new option the next time around like huuuuuuh? Absolutely love the visual novels that do that.

I'll get more into how amazing the actual game itself is in a second, but I'm a little impatient, and I want to jump into the synopsis. Nothing even really popped off as far as showing the LI's yandere side -- well, at least not as crazy as it could be. It was implied, and there were little peaks, but nothing too wild popped off -- but this has some damn good build up for the rest of the game.

Right now, and tragically, it's just the (extended) demo, but it is damned good. But, no, seriously. I'm going to go ahead and jump into the summary. As per usual, ya girl is going to tell you as much about this game as possible without ruining the game itself as a whole. Why? Because, duh, I want you to play it! That's the whole reason for the reviews, big dawg!

So, without further ado, I'm going to get into storytelling mode and summarize the game for ya!

So, boom.

When this whole thing pops off, we're lost in the woods.

Because we're lost with, like, zero bearings of our surroundings, we just kind've wait around in this hollowed out, rotten tree for someone to come along and help us. Admittedly, kind've a tall order, but we're trying to stay hopeful in this hopeless situation, so we wait it out.

We wait, and wait, and wait, and wait some more. We're sleeping on and off, and it's honestly making us feel worse. Why? Well, first off, it's hard to sleep in the current situation we're in anyways. Not to sound ungrateful, because at least we're somewhat shielded from the cold and wind and rain -- yeah, we're dealing with that, too --, but sleeping in a literal swamp area is not the most pleasant sleeping condition, let alone sleeping outside in general. The second is, since we aren't actually fully sleeping, we just feel tired whenever we wake up. It's just an all around sucky situation, but it'd be stupid to continuously wander around when we just see trees and more trees.

With not really much of an option other than to wait and get more crappy sleep, we wait and get more crappy sleep. The next time that we wake up though, it's because we hear the crunching of leaves and someone staring us down until we wake up, and when we do --

GYATT DAAAAAAAAAAMN.

Well, well, well!! Are we still asleep? Are we dreaming because I'm about to act ALL THE WAY up. Like, my most pleasant and ladylike woof for you, my good, visually pleasing sir, and I mean

Woof~♡

Even still though, going from seeing no one to seeing someone, especially this damned close, is pretty startling, so we try to go further back into the tree, but there's not really much further back that we can go.

This guy -- his name is Noah, by the way, and is an absolute bae -- sees us do this, and he's just like "Ayo, calm down. It's just me. Also, you look rough. Haha, sorry, that was rude, but like, this is what happens when you run off". ...Huh?

"Run off"...? Oh. Oh right. This is one of those games. Lmao I almost forgot that this man is probably psycho.

Anyways, he's pretty much lowkey talking shit. Like, he's not trying to from the tone, but he's pretty firm about what he's saying. Basically, we've been gone for about 2 and a half days now, and he's like, either we can come back with him and ensure our safety and survival or we can fuck around and find out. The reason why I say this is because apparently there' s another storm coming, and it's implied to be worse, not to mention that it's going to get mad cold.

...Well, we definitely don't want to fuck around and find out, so we go with him.

He's lowkey still talking shit, though, saying that he's glad we're being "very reasonable" this time and all that, but he's being pretty sweet about being gentle with us; he even helped dust our clothes off and offered to be better company this time around.

We make it back to his cabin, and it's still kind've ghetto and mouldy, but it's better than the last time we were here, so he must've been serious about trying to be better company. That being said, Noah starts trying to rizz us up a little...or that's how I took it, because I'm highkey down bad for this man.

In actuality, he just knows that we're in pretty bad shape and is trying to help us out by getting us on the couch, cleaning our face, feeding us, getting us warm, and, honestly, trying to be as gentle as possible. Partially, because he probably doesn't want us running off again, which he makes super clear because, as most people like him do, he explicitly tells us to never pull that crap again and that he just wants to keep us safe and all that.

Anyways, he gets us some clothes and let's us take a shower. Just because I feel that it's necessary to be said, there's mould in here, too, but it's only a little bit, and it's at the corner of the ceiling. Now the thing is, we can smell some kind of cleaning products so whether he used it on the walls or the utilities that were in the bathroom, we're not sure, but it reassures us that he does at least make an attempt to clean. I mean, the mould is still gross, but at least we aren't outside in the storm and freezing cold.

After a bomb ass shower, we head back out into the living room and regroup with Noah. He makes sure that we're all good and heads into his room to call it a night, but not before very sternly -- what's up with the random sass? -- telling us to not wake him up. Like, yeah, because there's so much to do in this dank, mouldy-ass, minimalist cabin that would cause such a ruckus, Noah. Like lmao be for real, homie.

Whatever, though, we just kind've let him go on about his business. Once he's gone, we look outside and oof...

He wasn't bluffing. Not only did it rain like he predicted, but it's coming down mad hard.

...

I mean, it would be totally stupid, yeah, but we could take our chances and escape for realisies this time since we're refreshed, or we could wake up Noah like he specifically told us not to do, maybe look around a bit which he also told us not to do for whatever reason.

Hmmmm...decisions, decisions.

Super sorry if the storytelling didn't flow as well as usual (if it even did beforehand), but I was pretty excited about getting to the review.

Me, personally, this was a demo done so absolutely correct. I'm honestly anticipating this visual novel so hard, and it's more for the story than the actual game because Noah is so...normal so far? Like, right now, he just seems like your typical tsundere hard ass that gets sassy for no apparent reason but has those really soft moments. I'm so ready to see this man come totally undone. Like, I need to see how psycho this man actually gets, because why did we run off the first time? Did we get kidnapped? Did he help us and wouldn't allow us to leave? Are we actually his partner and we tried to call it quits but our memories got wiped and now he's trying to start fresh so that's why he doesn't want us looking around? Was the reason we left because of the mould? Like, I have so many questions, and I'm invested in this story.

Can we also talk about the affinity and health bar? Such a nice touch; I love it. The way that everything in me just drops whenever either of those bars starts dipping down, and then the apprehension I got when they'd get dangerously low. Like, wait, what's going to happen to me? I'm honestly so excited to see what kind of turmoil the dev decides to create with it. I wonder if it's not what it seems though. Like, I wonder if you have to get his affinity in a certain range versus trying to max it out or as close to max as possible. You know, like you can't just always be a "yes" person towards him, but you're not supposed to be super combative either; just enough to get that cozy 72% and unlock a true ending or something.

This game has so many possibilities and so much potential, and I'm just damned excited about the direction that it's going in. The art style is sleek, the LI is a total bae, and the story is storying; it's an experience and a damned exhilarating one. Like, I'm in deep just because I'm so curious about, first off, what's going to happen next and, second, what tricks the dev still has up their sleeve that they hadn't showcased yet.

Okay, I think I've gushed enough. I absolutely recommend playing the game if you haven't already. Like I said, as far as the LI goes, nothing too out of pocket happens, just some sass, but the build up is damned solid. Definitely give it a good playthrough if you're willing, not to mention, there is multiple "endings" just in the demo which is wild. But yeah, if you want to give it the ol' college try, here's a link to the game. If you end up liking it and/or want to give the dev that extra push to keep going with a classic "Ayo, this game is kind've dope, and you are you. Give MOAR", head over to the game page (or the dev's tumblr) and post those encouraging words; if you're able, drop a few coins for them, too -- I'm sure they'd appreciate the extra support.

That's all from me though, so now, I'm going to somewhat awkwardly close this out and use this as a transition sentence since I can't think of anything better.

As always! A huge reminder! Drink water, don't be dumb, and hope to you around~!

Trembling Essence

Dev's Tumblr Page

[zombeebunnie]

We're making it out of the swamp with this one! ✌️😜

[randomsum]

I was day dreaming this 👁️ (ignore the first image I was very very lazy)

Momo the Torture is made by @2-dsimp

Mychaella is made by @deerspherestudios

Luna is made by @hime-bee

Nolan is made by @zombeebunnie

Croía is made by @prikarin

Emily & Erica are made by @perfectlovevn

I might add more gender-bents MIGHT idk🤷🏿‍♀️

[knightanni--fanart]

Noah Fanart from Trembling Essence!

I am extremely Normal about this man. I do not have Brainrot about him. Nope.

Character belongs to @zombeebunnie. Noah is the male yandere from their game, Trembling Essence, and you should go play the Extended Demo right now.

Edit: I forgot to share the YCH I used: link. Found on Pinterest.

[woundfucker89]

So yeah..there's this game that caught my attention.

It's called "Trembling essence,, its still under developement but the first day demo is already avaible on itch.io so yall should check it out and show the creator sum love :)

[rinriya]

VN with yandere ROs?

I want to play visual novels with yandere RO's who absolutely, clearly, 100% have problems with their heads. CLARIFICATION I'm totally OK, I just like thriller games with subtle psychology and dangerous situations of which you tried to get out (or just stay alive... or go crazy too). Can you recommend something like that? And it will be great if you can choose MCs gender or it will be gender neutral. I don't play as female MCs. I played Boyfriend To Death (the whole series ofc, it's a classic), Lurking For Love, Where Winter Crows Go, Hopeless Romantic, YOU and HIM, Lovers Trophy, Invite Me In, Yandere Love: Chains of Fate, Courtin' Cowboys, Trembling Essence, Killer Trait, Blood & Sherry

[novelteatins]

A Tea in Proust

This morning, I woke up and continued my reading of Swann’s Way, by Marcel Proust. The novel has been a comically ssslllooowww endeavor. Over 6 months I’ve accomplished about 60 pages. Initially, I thought it would be cool to ONLY read the book while skateboarding down College Avenue in Berkeley, something that proved quickly to be a bad idea in about every way except for it’s punk-romantic undertones which nobody but I (and Avril, RIP) seemed to care for anyhow...

Anyway, this morning, I read about 10 times my usual portion. Why? Well for the very reason I am here on NovelTeas blog to tell you, this morning’s reading happened to be a chapter concerning tea and memories...

I have copied the passage below:

Note: If this is your first time reading Proust, let me be the first to tell you to take your time -- that is the only way you’ll enjoy it...

...

And so it was that, for a long time afterwards, when I lay awake at night and revived old memories of Combray, I saw no more of it than this sort of luminous panel, sharply defined against a vague and shadowy background, like the panels which a Bengal fire or some electric sign will illuminate and dissect from the front of a building the other parts of which remain plunged in darkness: broad enough at its base, the little parlour, the dining-room, the alluring shadows of the path along which would come M. Swann, the unconscious author of my sufferings, the hall through which I would journey to the first step of that staircase, so hard to climb, which constituted, all by itself, the tapering ’elevation’ of an irregular pyramid; and, at the summit, my bedroom, with the little passage through whose glazed door Mamma would enter; in a word, seen always at the same evening hour, isolated from all its possible surroundings, detached and solitary against its shadowy background, the bare minimum of scenery necessary (like the setting one sees printed at the head of an old play, for its performance in the provinces) to the drama of my undressing, as though all Combray had consisted of but two floors joined by a slender staircase, and as though there had been no time there but seven o’clock at night. I must own that I could have assured any questioner that Combray did include other scenes and did exist at other hours than these. But since the facts which I should then have recalled would have been prompted only by an exercise of the will, by my intellectual memory, and since the pictures which that kind of memory shews us of the past preserve nothing of the past itself, I should never have had any wish to ponder over this residue of Combray. To me it was in reality all dead.

Permanently dead? Very possibly.

There is a large element of hazard in these matters, and a second hazard, that of our own death, often prevents us from awaiting for any length of time the favours of the first.

I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognised their voice the spell is broken. We have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life.

And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die.

Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, as I came home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called ’petites madeleines,’ which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim’s shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory–this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I was conscious that it was connected with the taste of tea and cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could not, indeed, be of the same nature as theirs. Whence did it come? What did it signify? How could I seize upon and define it?

I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, a third, which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing its magic. It is plain that the object of my quest, the truth, lies not in the cup but in myself. The tea has called up in me, but does not itself understand, and can only repeat indefinitely with a gradual loss of strength, the same testimony; which I, too, cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call upon the tea for it again and to find it there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down my cup and examine my own mind. It is for it to discover the truth. But how? What an abyss of uncertainty whenever the mind feels that some part of it has strayed beyond its own borders; when it, the seeker, is at once the dark region through which it must go seeking, where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not so far exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day.

And I begin again to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with it no logical proof of its existence, but only the sense that it was a happy, that it was a real state in whose presence other states of consciousness melted and vanished. I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I find again the same state, illumined by no fresh light. I compel my mind to make one further effort, to follow and recapture once again the fleeting sensation. And that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention to the sounds which come from the next room. And then, feeling that my mind is growing fatigued without having any success to report, I compel it for a change to enjoy that distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to rest and refresh itself before the supreme attempt. And then for the second time I clear an empty space in front of it. I place in position before my mind’s eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise, something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but I can feel it mounting slowly; I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed.

Undoubtedly what is thus palpitating in the depths of my being must be the image, the visual memory which, being linked to that taste, has tried to follow it into my conscious mind. But its struggles are too far off, too much confused; scarcely can I perceive the colourless reflection in which are blended the uncapturable whirling medley of radiant hues, and I cannot distinguish its form, cannot invite it, as the one possible interpreter, to translate to me the evidence of its contemporary, its inseparable paramour, the taste of cake soaked in tea; cannot ask it to inform me what special circumstance is in question, of what period in my past life.

Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being? I cannot tell. Now that I feel nothing, it has stopped, has perhaps gone down again into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise? Ten times over I must essay the task, must lean down over the abyss. And each time the natural laziness which deters us from every difficult enterprise, every work of importance, has urged me to leave the thing alone, to drink my tea and to think merely of the worries of to-day and of my hopes for to-morrow, which let themselves be pondered over without effort or distress of mind.

And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before church-time), when I went to say good day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks’ windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

And once I had recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like the scenery of a theatre to attach itself to the little pavilion, opening on to the garden, which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated panel which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I was sent before luncheon, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, permanent and recognisable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann’s park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.

Enjoy the rest of your day (and the days that follow?)

Warmly

Johnny

[r3dz3pp3lin]

Destruction of Syntax—Imagination without strings—Words-in-Freedom

The Futurist Sensibility

My Technical Manifesto of Futurist Literature, with which I invented essential and synthetic lyricism, imagination without strings, and words-in-freedom, deals exclusively with poetic inspiration.

Philosophy, the exact sciences, politics, journalism, education, business, however much they may seek synthetic forms of expression, will still need to use syntax and punctuation. I am obliged, for that matter, to use them myself in order to make myself clear to you.

Futurism is grounded in the complete renewal of human sensibility brought about by the great discoveries of science. Those people who today make use of the telegraph, the telephone, the phonograph, the train, the bicycle, the motorcycle, the automobile, the ocean liner, the dirigible, the aeroplane, the cinema, the great newspaper (synthesis of a day in the world’s life) do not realize that these various means of communication, transportation and information have a decisive influence on their psyches.

An ordinary man can in a day’s time travel by train from a little dead town of empty squares, where the sun, the dust, and the wind amuse themselves in silence, to a great capital city bristling with lights, gestures, and street cries. By reading a newspaper the inhabitant of a mountain village can tremble each day with anxiety, following insurrection in China, the London and New York suffragettes, Doctor Carrel, and the heroic dog-sleds of the polar explorers. The timid, sedentary inhabitant of any provincial town can indulge in the intoxication of danger by going to the movies and watching a great hunt in the Congo. He can admire Japanese athletes, Negro boxers, tireless American eccentrics, the most elegant Parisian women, by paying a franc to go to the variety theater. Then, back in his bourgeois bed, he can enjoy the distant, expensive voice of a Caruso or a Burzio.

Having become commonplace, these opportunities arouse no curiosity in superficial minds who are as incapable of grasping any novel facts as the Arabs who looked with indifference at the first aeroplanes in the sky of Tripoli. For the keen observer, however, these facts are important modifiers of our sensibility because they have caused the following significant phenomena:

1.    Acceleration of life to today’s swift pace. Physical, intellectual, and sentimental equilibration on the cord of speed stretched between contrary magnetisms. Multiple and simultaneous awareness in a single individual.

2.    Dread of the old and the known. Love of the new, the unexpected.

3.    Dread of quiet living, love of danger, and an attitude of daily heroism.

4.    Destruction of a sense of the Beyond and an increased value of the individual whose desire is vivre sa vie, in Bonnot’s phrase.

5.    The multiplication and unbridling of human desires and ambitions.

6.    An exact awareness of everything inaccessible and unrealizable in every person.

7.    Semi-equality of man and woman and a lessening of the disproportion in their social rights.

8.    Disdain for amore (sentimentality or lechery) produced by the greater freedom and erotic ease of women and by the universal exaggeration of female luxury. Let me explain: Today’s woman loves luxury more than love. A visit to a great dressmaker’s establishment, escorted by a paunchy, gouty banker friend who pays the bills, is a perfect substitute for the most amorous rendezvous with an adored young man. The woman finds all the mystery of love in the selection of an amazing ensemble, the latest model, which her friends still do not have. Men do not love women who lack luxury. The lover has lost all his prestige. Love has lost its absolute worth. A complex question; all I can do is to raise it.

9.    A modification of patriotism, which now means a heroic idealization of the commercial, industrial, and artistic solidarity of a people.

10.A modification in the idea of war, which has become the necessary and bloody test of a people’s force.

11.The passion, art, and idealism of Business. New financial sensibility.

12.Man multiplied by the machine. New mechanical sense, a fusion of instinct with the efficiency of motors and conquered forces.

13.The passion, art, and idealism of Sport. Idea and love of the “record”.

14.New tourist sensibility bred by ocean liners and great hotels (annual synthesis of different races). Passion for the city. Negation of distances and nostalgic solitudes. Ridicule of the “holy green silence” and the ineffable landscape.

15.The earth shrunk by speed. New sense of the world. To be precise: One after the other, man will gain the sense of his home, of the quarter where he lives, of his region, and finally of the continent. Today he is aware of the whole world. He little needs to know what his ancestors did, but he must assiduously discover what his contemporaries are doing all over the world. The single man, therefore, must communicate with every people on earth. He must feel himself to be the axis, judge, and motor of the explored and unexplored infinite. Vast increase of a sense of humanity and a momentary urgent need to establish relations with all mankind.

16.A loathing of curved lines, spirals, and the tourniquet. Love for the straight line and the tunnel. The habit of visual foreshortening and visual synthesis caused by the speed of trains and cars that look down on cities and countrysides. Dread of slowness, pettiness, analysis, and detailed explanations. Love of speed, abbreviation, and the summary. “Quick, give me the whole thing in two words!”

17.Love of depth and essence in every exercise of the spirit.

So these are some elements of the new Futurist sensibility that has generated our pictorial dynamism, our antigraceful music in its free, irregular rhythms, our noise-art and our words-in-freedom.

Words-in-freedom

Casting aside every stupid formula and all the confused verbalisms of the professors, I now declare that lyricism is the exquisite faculty of intoxicating oneself with life, of filling life with the inebriation of oneself. The faculty of changing into wine the muddy water of the life that swirls and engulfs us. The ability to color the world with the unique colors of our changeable selves.

Now suppose that a friend of yours gifted with this faculty finds himself in a zone of intense life (revolution, war, shipwreck, earthquake, and so on) and starts right away to tell you his impressions. Do you know what this lyric, excited friend of yours will instinctively do?

He will begin by brutally destroying the syntax of his speech. He wastes no time in building sentences. Punctuation and the right adjectives will mean nothing to him. He will despise subtleties and nuances of language. Breathlessly he will assault your nerves with visual, auditory, olfactory sensations, just as they come to him. The rush of steam-emotion will burst the sentence’s steampipe, the valves of punctuation, and the adjectival clamp. Fistfuls of essential words in no conventional order. Sole preoccupation of the narrator, to render every vibration of his being.

If the mind of this gifted lyrical narrator is also populated by general ideas, he will involuntarily bind up his sensations with the entire universe that he intuitively knows. And in order to render the true worth and dimensions of his lived life, he will cast immense nets of analogy across the world. In this way he will reveal the analogical foundation of life, telegraphically, with the same economical speed that the telegraph imposes on reporters and war correspondents in their swift reportings. This urgent laconism answers not only to the laws of speed that govern us but also to the rapport of centuries between poet and audience. Between poet and audience, in fact, the same rapport exists as between two old friends. They can make themselves understood with half a word, a gesture, a glance. So the poet’s imagination must weave together distant things with no connecting strings, by means of essential free words.

Death of free verse

Free verse once had countless reasons for existing but now is destined to be replaced by words-in-freedom.

The evolution of poetry and human sensibility has shown us the two incurable defects of free verse.

1.    Free verse fatally pushes the poet towards facile sound effects, banal double meanings, monotonous cadences, a foolish chiming, and an inevitable echo-play, internal and external.

2.    Free verse artificially channels the flow of lyric emotion between the high walls of syntax and the weirs of grammar. The free intuitive inspiration that addresses itself directly to the intuition of the ideal reader finds itself imprisoned and distributed like purified water for the nourishment of all fussy, restless intelligences.

When I speak of destroying the canals of syntax, I am neither categorical nor systematic. Traces of conventional syntax and even of true logical sentences will be found here and there in the words-in-freedom of my unchained lyricism. This inequality in conciseness and freedom is natural and inevitable. Since poetry is in truth only a superior, more concentrated and intense life than what we live from day to day, like the latter it is composed of hyper-alive elements and moribund elements.

We ought not, therefore, to be too much preoccupied with these elements. But we should at all costs avoid rhetoric and banalities telegraphically expressed.

The imagination without strings

By the imagination without strings I mean the absolute freedom of images or analogies, expressed with unhampered words and with no connecting strings of syntax and with no punctuation.

Up to now writers have been restricted to immediate analogies. For instance, they have compared an animal with a man or with another animal, which is almost the same as a kind of photography. (They have compared, for example, a fox terrier to a very small thoroughbred. Others, more advanced, might compare the same trembling fox terrier to a little Morse Code machine. I, on the other hand, compare it with gurgling water. In this there is an ever vaster gradation of analogies, there are ever deeper and more solid affinities, however remote.)

Analogy is nothing more than the deep love that assembles distant, seemingly diverse and hostile things. An orchestral style, at once polychromatic, polyphonic, and polymorphous, can embrace the life of matter only by means of the most extensive analogies.

When, in my Battle of Tripoli, I compared a trench bristling with bayonets to an orchestra, a machine gun to a femme fatale, I intuitively introduced a large part of the universe into a short episode of African battle.

Images are not flowers to be chosen and picked with parsimony, as Voltaire said. They are the very lifeblood of poetry. Poetry should be an uninterrupted sequence of new images, Or it is mere anemia and greensickness.

The broader their affinities, the longer will images keep their power to amaze.

—Technical Manifesto of Futurist Literature

The imagination without strings, and words-in-freedom, will bring us to the essence of material. As we discover new analogies between distant and apparently contrary things, we will endow them with an ever more intimate value. Instead of humanizing animals, vegetables, and minerals (an outmoded system) we will be able to animalize, vegetize, mineralize, electrify, or liquefy our style, making it live the life of material. For example, to represent the life of a blade of grass, I say, “Tomorrow I’ll be greener.”

With words-in-freedom we will have: Condensed metaphors. Telegraphic images. Maximum vibrations. Nodes of thought. Closed or open fans of movement. Compressed analogies. Color Balances. Dimensions, weights, measures, and the speed of sensations. The plunge of the essential word into the water of sensibility, minus the concentric circles that the word produces. Restful moments of intuition. Movements in two, three, four, five different rhythms. The analytic, exploratory poles that sustain the bundle of intuitive strings.

Death of the literary I  Molecular life and material

My technical manifesto opposed the obsessive I that up to now the poets have described, sung, analyzed, and vomited up. To rid ourselves of this obsessive I, we must abandon the habit of humanizing nature by attributing human passions and preoccupations to animals, plants, water, stone, and clouds. Instead we should express the infinite smallness that surrounds us, the imperceptible, the invisible, the agitation of atoms, the Brownian movements, all the passionate hypotheses and all the domains explored by the high-powered microscope. To explain: I want to introduce the infinite molecular life into poetry not as a scientific document but as an intuitive element. It should mix, in the work of art, with the infinitely great spectacles and dramas, because this fusion constitutes the integral synthesis of life.

To give some aid to the intuition of my ideal reader I use italics for all words-in-freedom that express the infinitely small and the molecular life.

Semaphoric adjective  Lighthouse-adjective or atmosphere-adjective

Everywhere we tend to suppress the qualifying adjective because it presupposes an arrest in intuition, too minute a definition of the noun. None of this is categorical. I speak of a tendency. We must make use of the adjective as little as possible and in a manner completely different from its use hitherto. One should treat adjectives like railway signals of style, employ them to mark the tempo, the retards and pauses along the way. So, too, with analogies. As many as twenty of these semaphoric adjectives might accumulate in this way.

What I call a semaphoric adjective, lighthouse-adjective, or atmosphere-adjective is the adjective apart from nouns, isolated in parentheses. This makes it a kind of absolute noun, broader and more powerful than the noun proper.

The semaphoric adjective or lighthouse-adjective, suspended on high in its glassed-in parenthetical cage, throws its far-reaching, probing light on everything around it.

The profile of this adjective crumbles, spreads abroad, illuminating, impregnating, and enveloping a whole zone of words-in-freedom. If, for instance, in an agglomerate of words-in-freedom describing a sea voyage I place the following semaphoric adjectives between parentheses: (calm, blue, methodical, habitual) not only the sea is calm, blue, methodical, habitual, but the ship, its machinery, the passengers. What I do and my very spirit are calm, blue, methodical, habitual.

The infinitive verb

Here, too, my pronouncements are not categorical. I maintain, however, that in a violent and dynamic lyricism the infinitive verb might well be indispensable. Round as a wheel, like a wheel adaptable to every car in the train of analogies, it constitutes the very speed of the style.

The infinitive in itself denies the existence of the sentence and prevents the style from slowing and stopping at a definite point. While the infinitive is round and as mobile as a wheel, the other moods and tenses of the verb are either triangular, square, or oval.

Onomatopoeia and mathematical symbols

When I said that we must spit on the Altar of Art, I incited the Futurists to liberate lyricism from the solemn atmosphere of compunction and incense that one normally calls by the name of Art with a capital A. Art with a capital A constitutes the clericalism of the creative spirit. I used this approach to incite the Futurists to destroy and mock the garlands, the palms, the aureoles, the exquisite frames, the mantles and stoles, the whole historical wardrobe and the romantic bric-a-brac that comprise a large part of all poetry up to now. I proposed instead a swift, brutal, and immediate lyricism, a lyricism that must seem antipoetic to all our predecessors, a telegraphic lyricism with no taste of the book about it but, rather, as much as possible of the taste of life. Beyond that the bold introduction of onomatopoetic harmonies to render all the sounds and noises of modern life, even the most cacophonic.

Onomatopoeia that vivifies lyricism with crude and brutal elements of reality was used in poetry (from Aristophanes to Pascoli) more or less timidly. We Futurists initiate the constant, audacious use of onomatopoeia. This should not be systematic. For instance, my Adrianople Siege-Orchestra and myBattle Weight + Smell required many onomatopoetic harmonies. Always with the aim of giving the greatest number of vibrations and a deeper synthesis of life, we abolish all stylistic bonds, all the bright buckles with which the traditional poets link images together in their prosody. Instead we employ the very brief or anonymous mathematical and musical symbols and we put between parentheses indications such as (fast) (faster) (slower) (two-beat time) to control the speed of the style. These parentheses can even cut into a word or an onomatopoetic harmony.

Typographical revolution

I initiate a typographical revolution aimed at the bestial, nauseating idea of the book of passéist and D’Annunzian verse, on seventeenth-century handmade paper bordered with helmets, Minervas, Apollos, elaborate red initials, vegetables, mythological missal ribbons, epigraphs, and roman numerals. The book must be the Futurist expression of our Futurist thought. Not only that. My revolution is aimed at the so-called typographical harmony of the page, which is contrary to the flux and reflux, the leaps and bursts of style that run through the page. On the same page, therefore, we will use three or four colors of ink, or even twenty different typefaces if necessary. For example: italics for a series of similar or swift sensations, boldface for the violent onomatopoeias, and so on. With this typographical revolution and this multicolored variety in the letters I mean to redouble the expressive force of words.

I oppose the decorative, precious aesthetic of Mallarmé and his search for the rare word, the one indispensable, elegant, suggestive, exquisite adjective. I do not want to suggest an idea or a sensation with passéist airs and graces. Instead I want to grasp them brutally and hurl them in the reader’s face.

Moreover, I combat Mallarmé’s static ideal with this typographical revolution that allows me to impress on the words (already free, dynamic, and torpedo-like) every velocity of the stars, the clouds, aeroplanes, trains, waves, explosives, globules of seafoam, molecules, and atoms.

Thus I realize the fourth principle of my First Futurist Manifesto: “We affirm that the world’s beauty is enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed.”

Multilinear Lyricism

In addition, I have conceived multilinear lyricism, with which I succeed in reaching that lyric simultaneity that obsessed the Futurist painters as well: multilinear lyricism by means of which I am sure to achieve the most complex lyric simultaneities.

On several parallel lines, the poet will throw out several chains of color, sound, smell, noise, weight, thickness, analogy. One of these lines might, for instance, be olfactory, another musical, another pictorial.

Let us suppose that the chain of pictorial sensations and analogies dominates the others. In this case it will be printed in a heavier typeface than the second and third lines (one of them containing, for example, the chain of musical sensations and analogies, the other the chain of olfactory sensations and analogies).

Given a page that contains many bundles of sensations and analogies, each of which is composed of three or four lines, the chain of pictorial sensations and analogies (printed in boldface) will form the first line of the first bundle and will continue (always in the same type) on the first line of all the other bundles.

The chain of musical sensations and analogies, less important than the chain of pictorial sensations and analogies (first line) but more important than that of the olfactory sensations and analogies (third line), will be printed in smaller type than that of the first line and larger than that of the third.

Free expressive orthography

The historical necessity of free expressive orthography is demonstrated by the successive revolutions that have continuously freed the lyric powers of the human race from shackles and rules.

1.    In fact, the poets began by channeling their lyric intoxication into a series of equal breaths, with accents, echoes, assonances, or rhymes at pre-established intervals (traditional metric). Then the poets varied these different measured breaths of their predecessors’ lungs with a certain freedom.

2.    Later the poets realized that the different moments of their lyric intoxication had to create breaths suited to the most varied and surprising intervals, with absolute freedom of accentuation. Thus they arrived at free verse, but they still preserved the syntactic order of the words, so that the lyric intoxication could flow down to the listeners by the logical canal of syntax.

3.    Today we no longer want the lyric intoxication to order the words syntactically before launching them forth with the breaths we have invented, and we have words-in-freedom. Moreover our lyric intoxication should freely deform, reflesh the words, cutting them short, stretching them out, reinforcing the center or the extremities, augmenting or diminishing the number of vowels and consonants. Thus we will have the new orthography that I call free expressive. This instinctive deformation of words corresponds to our natural tendency towards onomatopoeia. It matters little if the deformed word becomes ambiguous. It will marry itself to the onomatopoetic harmonies, or the noise-summaries, and will permit us soon to reach the onomatopoetic psychic harmony, the sonorous but abstract expression of an emotion or a pure thought. But one may object that my words-in-freedom, my imagination without strings, demand special speakers if they are to be understood. Although I do not care for the comprehension of the multitude, I will reply that the number of Futurist public speakers is increasing and that any admired traditional poem, for that matter, requires a special speaker if it is to be understood.

_ F.T. Marinetti

[zombeebunnie]

This is a video I made a long time ago with Noah and the player (Y/N) when I was just getting into making silly skit videos, I never posted it here because I lost the original audio but I got it back! :P

((Still working on the April fools event: mystery 2. >:P))

[zombeebunnie]

Just for fun from the [Extended Demo] and based off some comments I've been reading around about how the player(Y/N) won't let Noah go to sleep which made me laugh. :B

[zombeebunnie]

This was inspired by an audio I heard on tik Tok. It made me laugh and reminded me of the previous skits I've done between Noah and the player(Y/N) just for fun. Thank you guys for all the support!

Hopefully the grilled cheese sandwich was worth it. :P

[zombeebunnie]

Here's a little sneak peek of what's coming up in the future for the next game development post with Noah! hehe. :P

[zombeebunnie]

Love your game so my question is what does Noah do in his free time?? (⁠っ⁠.⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)⁠っ

Sleeping! :P

Just kidding, there's more!

Lore time:

I won't mention all of them because spoilers but here are some things Noah does during his free time!

Adventuring through the swamp:

This depends on the season but Noah does take time out to take walks through the swamp. The only time he won't go out is if it's too hot or storming badly to the point he can't traverse through it. He's also more likely to stay indoors during the winter season too. If he has enough free time through the swamp he'll go fishing, mainly during the spring season. Noah uses a specific fishing lure that doesn't hurt what he catches and will release them back into the waters. There's a special place that's safe for him to fish for food but he lost the fishing lure and stopped. (Eventually this will be updated to fit with the [Extended Demo]/full game but I talked a bit more about what he does through-out the year in a very old ask you can read here!

Sleeping:

Noah needed a good amount of time to become accustomed to living out in the cabin. Due to his sleeping issues, getting a chance to get extra sleep in gives him a time to relax. If he's out in the swamp sometimes he'll accidently fall asleep if he's very content. Every single time he woke up he'd be surrounded by animals comforting him or sleeping alongside him.

Sewing:

You get to see a hint of this in one of the routes from the [Extended Demo]. It's very therapeutic and keeps him at peace.

[zombeebunnie]

I had this in my drafts for a while and decided to finish it up. Noah was suppose to be laughing too but I forgot to add the animation. :P

Anywho, happy new years and thank you guys for all the continued support! :,]

[zombeebunnie]

Guy has a great chin 👍

He really does! 🤫🧏

On a serious note though I do need to be careful moving forward with drawing Noah's CG's. Sometimes I draw him from just sketch/memory and he ends up looking inconsistent. Some of the CG's in the [Extended Demo] are out dated too which will eventually be redone butttt that'll come some time in the future since it'll delay the update tremendously. It's not intentional but my art style fluctuates a lot if I don't draw in a while or when I learn new ways of shading, perspective, sketching, etc which leads to Noah looking off model. :,[ I did start a reference sheet last year but I'm not ready to work on it since I'm still improving. :[]

With that being said though I've come a very long way which makes me happy. >:]

[zombeebunnie]

Hi zombeebunnie👋☺️, I hope you're doing well❤️. When I woke up, a question popped in my head🤔I was wondering, what would Noah do if he saw someone hurt Y/N?(physically or emotionally) would he have a little "chit chat" with them or smush them like a pancake? I hope that this isn't a spoiler question 😅💗

Hellooo I'm doing fairly alright and this is a very good question! :]

Lore time:

In terms of Noah seeing someone hurt Y/N physically or emotionally, it heavily depends on the situation and what's going on.

He's more of a defensive fighter and only knows basic boxing along with a little bit of Jeet Kune Do. Noah would definitely fight back in the means to protect you and/or quickly get you out of a situation by using the 'One-punch' knock-out method. If it's emotionally he will stand up for Y/N especially if your emotions are running high and you start to cry. He'd then swiftly remove Y/N from the situation and console you until you feel safe and secure again. Noah knows his limits and the only time he'd try something passively different is if reacting could put Y/N or the both of you in danger.