weirdo writes things

Do you people-watch, or do you watch people? When I observe the human race, And I think about where my eyes are passing, Passing people being more than just their matter, Their motives too, ones which I will never learn As I sit here, maybe on a bench old and rickety With a programmed colony of ants marching over My fingers which drum softly to the music The bustling busker-boys play down the way, Becoming an intricate spider-web in that They show no signs of consistency, Yet all having some little effect on each other Which you could see just by how they cross each other's paths By seeing who steps to the left and which foot steps right Or if they stumble, their heels scraping the ground To make that scratching sound you know has a pitch but is too atonal for you to tell      (maybe the busker-boys would be able to tell you,      but their saxophones are being packed      and they're on the phone anyway) As they nearly crash into each other ...

Goodbye to Forever Blood pouring down its face, The angel was outmatched Like a broken worm Whose regenerative heart had been Ripped in two. And worms won't eat the ones they made      As Sin the Heretic ripped it limb from limb,      Her lips curled into a smile of emancipation.      The shackles of doctrine’s conniptions      Have been gored. In the angel’s final breath its eyes pierce the heavens And it wonders if its god was ever really there.

The Gate stood before you. Containing sector 9, nay, keeping you out. You are the Creator, and nothing must disturb this hellscape. Down the endless vein of marble you can just make out the blank Eyes of God. The protector. It was all about protection. Until one day you stepped forth and said you wanted out. You wanted to see how the multiverse was organized, and it let you. Everything in perfection. Everything is imperfection. In your time walking the Veil of the Multiverse, the spark in your eye only grew brighter. For only those who can look outside the known can run on top of the known. The Gate was here to stop you from proceeding to sector 9, despite it being your homeland. You left, and there is no turning back. What you have seen you cannot unsee. The Earth is but a pipe dream. You made your choice when you left. And you don't regret it. The Painting Guild you led is not lost without you, but they would aid you were you to lead them. The would follow you across the Veil, to...

90 Feet Above the Valley A ropebridge will kill you. A mere four points Holding miles together. The hemp and wood Breathe with every step. You're supposed to breathe. You must breathe When you lift a heavyweight. Tightness causes tears. Torn apart, A bridge cannot help you Walk slowly, lest it fall. Do not worry, though; In fact, relax! The wind will walk you the way. Let your feet go with your thoughts And make yourself a view. A ropebridge will not kill you. Holding four firm points, A fleeting few miles are made For you.

Standing Atop and Before the Departure of Our Continent. "Together, my sister and I sat at the crest of the Rolling Cliffs of Kjalsvyln. Inside my Arkrex Nightingale boots, I used my toes to disable the boost-jump features. It was taxing on the body, and used a considerable amount of Rust coursing through my veins. My sister, Aeliea, was born lucky. Her Golden Rust recharges itself much quicker than my Iron. She hardly ever disabled any one bit of her armor. We've a grave duty to uphold. The riots of Kjal have been growing by the day. The anger at the King is driving the mist away, and letting the thieves and beasts in. With all bad comes greatness, and with all greatness comes despair. We are such thieves and beasts, Aeliea and I. But not a worthless pickpocket or hungry wolf. We seek to fuel their fires. To let them all in. When Kjal breaks, Svyl will lay waste. But that castle in the mist will not stand. With forces worn thin and the strength of two beasts, we siblings will...