emoji input method where you grimace into the camera

You rub your eyes to watch the phosphenes. One bounces around,↵seems to eat the others,↵turns towards you, grows,↵okay stop, you open your e

branches orbit an impossible tree rooted in vacuum itself, bear universe fruits full of possibility as if to make up for the tree

metadata is actually the most useful surveillance data per bit, it’s what you store/query first when you lack the resources to use it all

Infected fire is pale, tame, textured with dark threads of parafire, shows intelligence never seen in its feral cousin - we keep it as pet

Parafire, fuzzy void mold, has started growing on our flames, stunting their growth but in doing this, paradoxically prolonging their life

The sun rises, the city opens and releases the stench of a busy night. In a safe distance, trade caravans already wait to pollinate.

The sun sets, the city furls up into a bud around a gleaming central spire, exposing only the tough hide of its belly to the hostile night.

What if there’s a rich existing toolset to deal with words that have power, right in front of us?↵What if magical thinking is actually good?

similarly, there are ideas that cannot be voiced, not because they’re ineffable, rather they’re ruined the moment you use language for them

there is a place that cannot be found through maps and cannot be described - show the way or tell the story, and you will never see it again

NEW: Cutting edge theory from the forefront of memetics! A manual and a magifesto! I give you - ｍｅｍｅ　ｍａｇｉｃ： http://www.synkretie.net/writings/meme%20magic.html

Our service: We obtain the login of your deceased friend/spouse/senpai and post an in-character tweet or two at a random point in the future

[pursues a thread hinted at in @MoralOfStory’s latest weird.solar piece: https://weird.solar/spoffed-38ad5250a139 - humans as will organelles]

These machines could be autonomous but, to be legible to law, still contain humans to serve as homunculi, ceremonial loci of free will.

now we add some acid and wait for the time crystals to precipitate ~ see light and thoughts be captured and make them ring with resonance

clouds of basalt and airships of granite contrast the sun, throw shadows on wisps of vapor covering the ground and playing around my feet

There’s no getting off a neutron star’s surface, nor below it. Constrained to two dimensions, a universe plays over it and we watch.

The sun rises and you see feral drones hanging off power lines. A familiar sight: They provide both power and protection against scavengers.

«You are the first to summon me! Leave a good rating in the Dictionnaire and you’ll get a special price! Competition is tough these days…»

the light of truth illuminates only ruins, once proud ontologies now picked clean, bone cathedrals haunted by thoughts bereft of purpose

The street sign says “End of the self”. How cute,↵↵sense turns to sand↵the direction, gone↵feral thoughts tear into what’s left like maggots

Trolling is the noble pursuit of teasing answers out of the huge and crusty mainframe we call Internet. Without an operating manual!

▣: Inert. Seemingly powered by a Turing oracle. Finds halting inputs for any machine, including experimenters’ brains. Dangerous and useless

become motion, ride the rhythm, ebb and flow↵dance with the vortices, kiss the molecules, caress every atom↵be gentle but unrelenting chaos

So you want to be a demiurge? Oh yes! Create! So pretty! And then suddenly you’ve made all these beings, suffering,↵help↵you never meant to

In Fractal City, maps are intricate and expensive. And if you leave them unguarded, squatters will move in and turn them into territories.

In Fractal City, cleaning with water is prohibited. It was a careless cleaning lady on the low-res levels who caused the last great flood.

Here in Fractal City, you’ll always find a house. Just don’t be surprised when your bed’s underside turns out to be the red light district.

In the kelp forests, you can always tell the local dominant species by whether the dryads have flippers, tentacles, antennae, pincers,

Comet punch is ¼ Rum, ¼ actual moonshine, ½ apple juice, cinnamon & comet ice. The hangover will hit you again, and again, and again.

The palace walls are made from the heads of his enemies. As you walk past, they mouth insults at you, beg for mercy, gibber without voice,

a heavenly melody, but from up close you hear the tiny voices of tortured souls straining against the inside of each note↵don’t be drawn in

there’s a membrane of comforting illusions between you and reality, you can peel it off like a screen’s, oh so tempting and such a bad idea

the Chinese Room argument but applied to universes - humans aren’t turing-computable, ergo a turing-computable universe can’t contain humans

The most noble ideas are hard to capture. Like their gaseous brethren, they float free and don’t connect with anything.

people are going to miss the eternal september when it ends: after it comes winter

secret to immortality is to destroy anything else that could eat you, including other people, bacteria, entropy and time

When the body walks on for a while after having been decapitated, that’s called experiencing a case of phantom brain.

“Hah, we’re going to need a comb to crucify that guy!“↵It was not Centipede Jesus’ best day.

A few things are immediate and real in Plato’s cave: The chains binding its inhabitants, chafing against their ankles, the constant pain.

The tree is large enough to have weather: Clouds nest in its branches, swarm out at night and return to its protective shadow during day.

Mathematical constellations shift, truth-gazers over their notes and proof assistants see ancient theorems break under their hands and panic

making a deal with the devil only to find out that you were outfitted with a cheap counterfeit soul and the deal is null

tweets about comets return every few months

⁂ Theorists found guilty of planting a logic bomb under popular ideology ⁂ Government busy rescuing survivors from the atomized remains ⁂

the rainbow has gained an additional black, deep and brilliant, the thunder seems to be forming words, the wind feels like searching hands

nostalgia for science: reminiscing about the huge machines we built, the coherence of our visions, the conviction that one could know