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the establishment cries in icelandic, Your Soul Has No Arms, and so on and so forth.

The river flows calmly, meandering through the prairies and fields of another realm. On its bank sits a white wolf. It has no eyes, but it looks to the moon. There is not one moon, but seven. The eyeless white wolf howls, and the seven moons howl back.

The river begins to glow.

everything from here to there is f a d i n g

Hark! Time moves backwards.
The river vanishes, leaving the wolf to his own

it is not the beast we see that we fear. it is the beast we will become that we fear. panish


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What is an occupation, if not a shackle that restrains us to an archetype? I build my identity not on what I do, but rather on what I do not do. So unemployed, basically.


shady and rina are systematically watering down the grammar of yws
— Tuckster