bursting at the seams.

a collection of seemingly unintentionally profound shitposts that fill me with a viscerally intense feeling of existential awareness

Aries: The great stone aeries hewn from the very rock of the mountaintops. Inaccessible, except to those with wings. The roosting halls are littered with bones and empty suits of armor.

Taurus: The colossal secret workshops hidden deep withing the mountains. The great water-wheels lay motionless, the aquifers clogged by scrap and corpses, massive bellows stoking forge fires that have long since gone out. 

Gemini: Sprawling garden temples teeming with life. Doorways sealed shut by tree roots, an entire river redirected to pass through the center now flows over the aqueduct walls, carpeting the old holy carvings with moss and river grasses.

Cancer: A graveyard. A grove of sacred trees, each planted in the bosom of a departed soul. The walls have crumbled and the groundskeepers have been dead for centuries. A black ram watches you from a nearby hilltop.

Leo: The courtyard of a long dead philosopher king. Marble statues in dramatic poses, missing limbs and finer features. Wildflowers reach towards their ankles. All encircled by the remains of a palace, only the foundations are left.

Virgo: A temple to the winter itself. Grand feasting halls and warm hearths. Vaulted ceilings built so high the priestesses tended to their own indoor forests. The place is frozen white now, colossal pine trees reaching through the stone to the winter sky.

Libra: An apple orchard. The ground is covered in little pink blossoms. The cider press still wanders the grounds, grinding intruders to a fine golden mulch. 

Scorpio: The hanging rock. An altar to the sky. The perch where souls are taken to the next life. The tree of hooks is bare and rusted by the sea salt air. The ground is long since picked clean. Sea birds dont dare to rest here, lets they be mistaken for gruesome bait.

Ophiuchus: A college built into the cliffside. Rolling green hills and ivy cascading over the facade like a waterfall. The great doors are locked. Lavender grows from the window shutters.

Sagittarius: The great stone shipyards. Scuffs on the colossal walls tell of imperious warships and merchant fleets. The locks are stuck closed. Willows grow from the dry docks. The lighthouse watches on.

Capricorn: A ramshackle town built above a sewer cistern. Tiny homes made from trash and driftwood. A schoolhouse, a hospital, even a courthouse, all slowly sinking into the mire.

Aquarius: The grounds where the carnival was held. Nothing but grass and stars now.

“I take my cat on adventures but he just sleeps right through them”

There is a house underground, and there are people in it. And they’re the first to tell you that they’re not very nice: they’re con-men, grifters, forgers and imposters. They sit among stink bugs, and they’ve been there for so long that maybe they’ve convinced themselves that they just belong there.

There is a rock, and it is a gift, but it is also a burden. And maybe it’s a metaphor, but it’s also just a rock: solid and heavy, difficult to lug around, and dangerous in the wrong hands. Some people will tell you that it’s supposed to bring wealth. But again, it’s also just a rock.

There is a line, and it cannot be crossed.

There is a smell, and it comes from the underground. And the people who live in the house on the hill can smell it. And the people who live underground try to imagine a life in the sun, a future where they aren’t just garbage to be washed away in the rain. But there is a smell that sticks to them, and they know that they can never really belong.

There is a world, and it is nice, but not really. There are houses on hills, and houses underground. There is plenty of sun, but it isn’t for everybody. There are people grateful to be slaves, and people unhappy to be served. There are systems that we are born into, and they create these lines that cannot be crossed. And we all dream of something better, but we’ve been living with these lines for so long that we’ve convinced ourselves that there really isn’t anything to be done.

There is a knife. And it doesn’t do much in the long run, but there will always be some satisfaction in crossing some lines.”