who gave the washer cryptid access to art supplies

I spent five hours on this and three hours on this and the post with my post with the most likes is a wingless bee that took about two minutes and honestly? I'm not even mad.

It's freeing, in a way, knowing the universe cares not for our petty struggles. It's nice, somehow, to know that our memories will dissolve into history, to be dug up in a thousand years or buried in the sands of time. Our sins may never be forgiven, but they will always be forgotten. Our stories and faces dismissed, as a product of a feeble imagination. The worse we can do is end up on the losing side of history, and even then, Justice cares not for the minions of great evil. History will continue to repeat and repeat and repeat without thought to the poor souls turned puppet as they act out the same old charade, understanding less and less of the world around them. The only thing truly unique belonging of theirs is their word. They write the same syllable in the same poem, but each time there is new rythum, new rhyme. They break the cycle. Remarkable, humans. No regard for their pain, no thought given to their suffering. They survive again and again. No god could compare to the power of a human to forgive and renew. I have stated that our sins are only forgotten, and it is true, but humans break the rules again and again. They forgive the unforgivable. The forgive the most horrid, unmentionable acts. They forgive, and forgive, and forgive. And they come out stronger for it. I wish I could be like them, these humans.