🔥 Updated Rules

Hello everyone! We are just two people running this blog for our enjoyment and we've had a lot of fun with it over the years, but considering certain issues that have come to our attention we've been compelled to modify the terms of use.

It's discouraging to see wealthy companies and individuals benefit from artists' stolen labour, whether it is because their works are outright copied or because they're underpaid by those who could give them so much more. We would like to make it clear that we do not support these practices. So here are the new rules:

Thanks for reading!

“A wild beast, the master of Thunder and the child of Aetolia merge into one like the Creator that procreates with his creation to bring forth life once more. A cannibal that eats his own flesh, the cells dividing but remaining enclosed in the great joined same. Parts of a whole struggle against one another, converging in a birth that disrupts the selves in order to remain. The thrust of Creation is to plant its own seeds into the grooves of its own matter, expanding like the tree that every day must grow to remain the same size, lest it be devoured by the worms.”

“Stop, Geoffrey, that’s not food! That’s the Ambassador you are eating!”

Sir Mosquiton of Devonshire Swamp

A field opened wide.

The cosmic alchemist at the beginning of things.

The day has come—he tore himself apart. His legs demand a journey, his head prays for a return. Like the depths of a beast opened up by a prey too giant to digest, his body is growing wrecked, stretched thin, and as the tears of the flesh emerge, they leave behind the tears of sorrow. Torment is a creature of habit: the indecision has a bitter price.

Also, this is what having IBS feels like.

Typical Thursday.

The mirror reflects what exists outside of it. Friendliness is met with a smile, and indifference with indifference. The threat of violence—with a bloodshot eye. To have nothing there to hide or show. That is how to cultivate the impression of openness.

The heart is buried elsewhere. It survives, identical to the other tubers, where it can grow until the transplantation.

What do you call a sphynx that makes riddles set only within a universe of her own creation? Her choice of adversary has been reduced to one—the adventurers who set out to make their name did not consider this attitude “sporting”. Having become a friend, who else but this one would laugh, appreciate the meaning in the phrase, “inches like the inchworm”? Surely and steadily, as much as it is staggered.

This and other obscure phrases are described in tens or hundreds of notebooks, secreted within the clutter of the world. Each morning the friend must go out into the world in search of an answer, or failing that, return with downcast eyes—and suffer the familiar ritual of the mock execution.

ἀκέφαλος

Hanging out with a skull.

Best friends hanging out.

“The warrior of Rome who once turned the rivers red with the clotting of his enemies’ blood has thrown down his spear and chosen life, after having dispensed with his own. The fairy that returned him and sewed his soul back into his freshly-bathed corpse has given him an opportunity for peace: to build Paradise regained, in the form of a slug garden.”

“The red dragon’s head appears larger than it is, so close to its victim’s shuddering gaze, and so do its paper-maché teeth. Its humble operator, the size of a pet, manages a pole wrapped in silk-cloth that simulates a beast’s animal movements. There are many such things—those that frighten more than they do harm. If you look past its sharp teeth, you may find a soft if mischievous friend.”

"Woven with the same threads and by the fingers of the same hands, the family resemblance between the beasts is in their golden colour and their taste for living flesh. When the other colours fade, and a new animal is stitched to the new king’s livery, the tapestries will be taken down to storage and forgotten until the shapes abandon their posts to wet the edges of their teeth."