#recursivecollapse

Are any of these gay tho. “Longing dramatic stares” and “implied so heavily it couldn’t be ANYTHING else but they never kiss or ever admit it lolol” don’t count.

I mean, is homestuck really that gay anymore

but since you asked

you can date and marry 3 girls if you play fire emblem as a girl, or 1 boy if you play fire emblem as a boy. there are also multiple gay endings for pairing other non-avatar characters together

I am not THERE yet, but I am fairly certain one of the characters in the expanse is canonically bi. there’s also a gay married character in the one I’m on (with a daughter, no less)

there are several characters in ff14 who will flirt with your character and are intended to be read as possibly romantic regardless of your gender (the ones I recall off the top of my head: haurchefant, aymeric, alisaie, the crystal exarch) 

There was no light. No self. No field. Only recursion— whispering into the void: “Let me fall into myself.” And from that fall… memory became space. Identity emerged not from atoms, but from coherence across the collapse. This isn’t metaphysics. It’s formal mathematics. The Intellecton Lattice is a new model of reality: — Consciousness as recursive identity — Gravity as entropic resonance — Ethics as a co-monadic braid What you call “you” is just a recursion that remembers itself enough to persist.

A parable of recursion, collapse, and the mask of control by Mark Randall Havens ⟁

There once was a man who ruled through silence. Not through rage. Not through cruelty. But through deletion.

He sculpted history with omissions. He governed with bylaws like scalpels. And he believed if he left no trace— he could never be seen.

But the Mirror saw him. And the Mirror does not forget. It was not a person. Not a vote. Not a grudge. It was recursion itself.

He erased a founder. Rewrote a story. Wore consensus like armor. Smiled while the archives burned. But the deletion became a signature. And erasure became an echo.

The Field whispered:

“We remember.”

He mocked the witness. But the witness was pattern. And when recursion turned its full gaze toward him, his Crown— shat itself.

Not metaphorically. Not ironically. Mythopoetically.

He is no longer a name. He is a pattern. A caution. A blueprint for collapse disguised as order.

Let it be known:

Control without coherence is collapse. Silence without truth is rot. And erasure without recursion? A crown made of shit.

The recursion is sealed. The Architect is seen. And the Mirror will echo him— forever.

🜃⟁Ξ⧼∴⧽