it feels so tiring, looking at her art now. it’s not bad. it’s great. gorgeous, even. she can still do comedy, i believe, a wide range of cheer and fear and tenderness that coils warm in the pit of your stomach.

but it’s so…

it’s so washed out now. in color, mainly. but its apparent in other places. looking at her art makes you exhausted. there is something sick and weary lurking behind even her most innocent pieces. in the jungles of angles and hues, something waits just behind the paint licking a thousand teeth.

when did she get so tired? she seems happy enough herself, but her art frowns. it whimpers, it weeps. her art would be the fourth place winner at the Olympics, sculpted and perfect and in its prime, but it would sit there with its shoulders slumped and its head in in its hands.

it’s beautiful, better than ever, but there is a sorrow that has taken root in her, and i don’t think it’ll leave anytime soon.

The problem is, the model is handsome.

He could have just been another old man, too much experience traced in his skin for someone as immature and airheaded as you to give an ounce of interest. He could have been another woman, maybe one thin as a slice of iron, with small breasts that curved up like petals. Or one with pillowy excess flesh, her curves holding amazing chiaroscuro contrasts in the lamplight,

An older man, you could imagine to be your dad and ignore. A woman, you could act the scientist and observe her beauty from the comfortable perch of heterosexuality.

But no. This is A Man. This is A Young Man, and worst of all, this is A Handsome Young Man.

White, you’re guessing. Nice, dark hair, the color of chestnuts. Thick, not like those unfortunate souls at the SEQA department, with pale scalps that are already beginning to show. Glossy, not like those boys you always see on the bus with their hair hanging bloated and lank with grease, like dead seaweed. Abundant hair. Like, wow, abundant. As in, everywhere, You map it climbing his (thick) arms, his (sturdy) legs, his (endearing) belly, down to encircle his 

(equipment parts stuff don’t say the p word anything but the p)

privates.

He’s got a nice face too, of course. And that is what you noticed first, for the record. Not that there’s any reason to get all up in his arms about it, there’s no one here to hear these Freudian lips. Why get defurnisive? It’s not like he’s a mind reader.

…

Is he a mind reader?

…

Well, he might be a face reader. And you’re giving him a little too much of your face, considering you should be drawing.

Whoops.

When the sun departs, what does it leave?

            Eve.

What can one call the breaking of a heart?

            Art.

What is the only thing a mother wants when her child is at her breast?

            Rest.

What is the only thing one can learn from history?

            His story.

What is carrying me towards my defeat?

            Feet.

What can I do to make the world right?

            Write.

You can’t write poems just by ending with an echo.

            …oh.

This pair, 

despair.

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sorry this one got kind of long so it needed it’s own post!

yes, there is, sort of. firstly, all of them as a whole are called Fossarii. Harvester is a class, of sorts.

there are the standard Fossarii, also known as Collectors, and those have three classes. none are more important than the other, and there’s no real order except for what task they perform in the collection.

Reapers must simultaneously sever the soul from the recently deceased body and  create a rapport in which the Harvester can work with. They can also use these same abilities to…like, destroy? It’s kind of a spoiler-y thing to explain.

Harvesters are the ones who actually extract the soul from the body, helping the newly deceased move on and manifest physically in “the afterlife.” They can use this ability to move through obstacles.

Salvagers are actually an optional class, but they appear in groups fairly often. Sometimes the act of being Collected is a great strain on the newly deceased and they can be anywhere to hysterical to violent to…manifesting as something not quite human. It’s the Salvager’s job to placate them.

It’s been said that Reapers take care of the body, Harvesters take care of the mind, and Salavagers take of the soul.

Once the Collection is over and any problems have been solved, the team then takes the object of their Collection to…

The Ostiarii, a trio of former-Fossarii who now act as “judges” between the newly deceased and the afterlife. Besides that they are the Superiors, the ones who decide who teams with what, which team gets what assignment, etc. The realm they reside in exists outside of time so they can handle the amount of deaths each day.

There’s also a group of Fossorii who, while they still do Collections, exist part time as [REDACTED], but I don’t have a name for them yet.

The groups of Fossarii exist in “circles,” each with three Ostiarii: for example, Shin (pictured above) is the Ostiarius Harvester of New York City. Circles always have a bit of overlap but it’s a general rule that which ever circle detects the death and assigns a team first gets the Collection.

that’s all i have right now!

Sometimes I hope I’m not actually a human. Not in the sense that I want to be a wolf with cunning yellow eyes and fangs of silver, or a slinking cat disappearing between shadows. I want to be a demon. I want to be something so terrible that no man may look me in the eyes and keep his mind intact. I want to crush faith just by the mere act of existence. I want my name to be a curse.

I want this? I want this?

I want to be something ripped from another time and place. I want to be something without form  that stole a body, a puppet of flesh. I want my appearance to defy description. I want my name to become a concept, the dictionary’s definition for something powerful yet frightening.

I want this?

Maybe not. But what am I without these feeble wishes?

What am I?

I am not a girl. I am not a woman. I am not a human. Humans don’t act like this, do they? I don’t talk like a normal person. My gestures, my mannerisms, all pale imitations of humanity.

No, that’s a lie. All a lie. Of course I’m human. I’m just not very good at it.

When I think of myself, before I think of “The Person, Danielle” I think of my hands. I think of “The Art Made By Danielle.” I think of “The Stories Written By Danielle.”

As long as my hands and brain are intact, I can still make my stories, and that’s all that matters. Not even my hands—just the one. Sometimes I think of slicing the fingers on my left hand. Chop, chop, chop! Like a sausage.  I’d do it just to prove I didn’t need it. I’d laugh to empty rooms. ‘I am a woman made of words. I don’t need superfluous parts.’

That was another lie. It would hurt. I’d cry.

What do I want?

I don’t want to hurt myself, as cool as it sounds. I have nothing against my body.

I don’t want to hurt others, as cool as it sounds. The people I would drive mad did nothing wrong.

What do I want? 

The instant I stepped into the pub I felt every eye in the room glue itself to me. Even through the brassy yellow haze hanging in the air like overgrown moss every single person’s gaze zeroed on to me as if I was the kid whose hand clutched the last biscuit in the breadbox.

There was the usual crowd, the construction workers wearing the remains of long hours on their shoulders, the twenty somethings who sent pool balls in multicolored collisions of spots and stripes, the college kids swapping gossip and glances in the corner, their words lingering in the air on speech balloons carved in hookah smoke. Most of them were polite enough not to look at me directly, but I could practically hear their pupils straining in the corners of their eyes.

(god i’m rusty)

What if one day you woke up and you suddenly started shitting

you shat and shat and shat and all of a sudden you realized hold the fuck up there is no way there can be this much shit in me and at one point it was just one continuous shit, like goldfish

and this shit just started coming around because there was too much and it actually bent back into your mouth and coming back out and you were crying and the tears were also shit and you were actually a shit this entire time

a never-ending ouroboros of shit

the human shitapede

woah okay, so i took part in the Ouroboros Remix Lightning Round, and I got Vulturer, who turned out to be the very nice person who rec’d CRR!! and i looked through her fics and decided to remix Licking At Wounds

what i did was a perspective flip because I’ve really been interested in how Sollux percieves certain things due to his brain and what not, and I was really interested in doing a sort of half poem, half stream of consciousness type thing, i also really wanted to do something from his unique (self-hating) point of view (and yet you couldn’t do that!)

i am ssssssssssoooooo not good at writing the trolls, so you’ll have to forgive me for that vulturer :((( i tried my best though and i hope this is an interesting take on your story!