Chert (#F3/#1C)

You can't apologize your way out of it.

You could live your way out of it.

you: watching

me: You could join me?

you: blushing

you: fails to scamper off

me: coward

What?

There was more to my question than the first word.

😐

This is a picture of m[any lines forming an arc, and another arc stemming from the arc below]e.

What do you like about your dystopia? What do you not like about your dystopia?

What is one moment of utopia (this pulse, this breath, this taste on the tongue, rando on dating app) you would like to serve as kink today?

the breathe (she/✨)

This breath is a dom. Yes, she knows you have a pulse. That the pulse probably came first in some ordered list of yours. But does this breath care? No. Swallow her spit. Good moment. You're breath's little kink toy aren't you. You like it when breath gets down on your neck like this. Sinks her teeth into your day. Brings you up for her air only to send you down into the floor, pib you to consciousness, tell you your the prettiest moment she's ever beheld, then exhaust you to waste, heat shivering into nothing, clean smoke.

the pulse (t͡hea/t͡heair/t͡heam)

Thrum or thrust, this hearthrob know you like rivers know rain. You can hide from your pulse, but this beat know where to find you. T͡hea are every blow you've ever taken, every strike you've ever put to light. You might know nothing of the cold and silent, for the pulse is everwatching. But slip away into awe or wonder and you live taste to pulse, who swells over you like flesh and rides you through exhaustion into sleep and the softer positions between stirred and settled. A long forever, pulse never finding you edible.

the taste (gap/gaps/gasp)

Every word asks you listen until the smell hits. How each has its meadow, its flowers. How easy the words come. How simple the world holds this moment in. And squeezes. Like dawn, the water vapor shifts before the light comes. Every morning the one. Every rise the first. The way a frozen place holds its bubbles like ancient air. How the last time this place took to lung was another universe. This air has never been through a blood stream. These molecules know nothing of the world of life. Until now.

the rando (it/🦟/🪞)

Is it a taste, a pulse, a breath? In the center of ithis three-lobed venn diagram, rando throttles you. Whatever it is needed you, this moment, has you - don't look. Be a dear, more becoming for them. Less you know, more space for them to. Most generous. Rando couldn't ask for a richer canvas. You really don't know - you're just here right now. That's almost disgusting. What a terrible trust. Such open visage. Supple terrain. Like blinks over becoming, the rando lands over you, drinking your waste heat, pooling (in)to life.

After to have selected your utopia. Offer yourself to them in any position you like. Dress yourself in the finest vignette, drop cloth, plastic plants can lights with gels reminiscent of water color. Hold an image of you clothes in one hand, undressing in the other, as you sit in the plastic and the nude, legs spread, eyes dull, and drooling. Head held up by a collar bought at a local shop with the tag still on it. Stare with nothing into your kink.

As they satisfy themselves over you, hold the moment you become against the chest. Let the chest become yours. You are meteor dust on leaf, salt on shore, rain on window. Arrival. You are born this moment and live no other. This moment is yours. Which kink are you? You default analysis paralysis into The Rando. You will feel the call of a pulse or the breath or taste - this may take several lifetimes. But you will be found. You will be held. You will be cherished. And your moment will end you.

Because moments have all the power. They are what why there is. infinite "what?" that question; infinitely small that "what?" This moment, these lungs, this perspective to slip over them every pair of lungs you'd mistake for yours, lined up. All your body's breaths at once. All yours this a moment's power. Perfect yolo, deep as you can, first, left, every middle, all at once, starflower.

Crushed and crushed again, you bloom. I am in here. You my kink until proven otherwise. I pulse what taste a breath. So good. So faithful.

taxx: "my toxic trait is that i get pissed off at the fact that most people do not feel the need to qualify or justify their opinions on art. like how can you even like something if you don't know why"

tira: "Complete and utter longterm unwillingness of majority of people to consider alternative platforms and take a temporary hit to convenience now, leading ultimately to this."

taxx: "they drop the 'well, I like it so it's good' and I get frustrated and ask them why they're even in this conversation in the first place and then they're like 'does everyone HAVE to think deeply about things?'"

tira: "the end user does not care someone else will be really glad to as we are seeing real time."

tira: "It is basically impossible to get standard users to care. I assume because the effect is insufficiently visible to the here and now so can this latest restriction even do that?"

taxx: "the tone of the level design is intentional and harmonic with the visual style, are you even honoring "gameplay" if you don't care about how design can inform aesthetic and the other way around, how in a lot of ways gameplay IS deco."

tira: "This is the result of computer literacy being critically low and basically seen as a nerd thing when it is critically important to the long term personal and societal prospects because of the massive importance of computers."