A new one has rolled in. Sleek, modern, no conductor or passengers. Can I hijack that? Whose thoughts are these and where will they take me?

I think I found a train yard. Some of these look as if made for a different atmosphere. Graffiti and rust everywhere. Who lost these?

I didn’t even lose my train of thought. I missed it entirely. The platform was empty when I arrived. Currently wandering along the tracks.

My hand weighs the stone, feels its rough texture, edges lost to water and time↵blink↵The soft touch vanishes and I fall to the ground, mute

Be careful with those plot threads. Lose enough and resourceful characters will weave them into plot armor to protect against your writing.

In the inner courtyard grows a tree. Both sapling and ancient, it is rooted in its own decaying stump. One of its holes houses an ouroboros.

Once a thief got lost and tried to smash her way out. A future self slew her before the deed, paradoxing herself out of ten years of limbo.

A fortress dazzling time itself: Its curved walls, mirrors and prisms induce eddies in the flow, corridors branch into different timelines.

Moondust ink, by the way, is white during gibbous/full moon, transparent during crescent/new moon, and glows in a deep red during eclipses.

Your mug blinks in and out of existence since that time you mixed moondust ink in it. Be quick to drink or your tea will end up in your lap.

Spin the top fast enough and the movement will separate from the moving: a frozen colourful whirl below, a wildly flittering nothing above.

In the right reader, the parts will align again and click into place. The author is reborn in the reader’s body and free to write again.

One has to decompose one’s mind into its constituents, place them in the writing in a careful arrangement of mirrors, lenses and gems.

Authors understand that their writing grants them a kind of immortality. But some of the skilled and ambitious reach for the real thing.

Look up from the screen. The door has just closed, a few dust motes are still running for cover. Ponder the door, then return to the screen.

Effects on dreamtime, should it be completed, will be devastating. Only years til bitter rain scours a dying wasteland and poisons dreamers.

The governments are only looking to hoard strategic nightmare fuel reserves, but the companies are building the nightmare combustion engine.

Sent by unscrupulous media companies and black operations, they map dreamtime and drill for promising wells.

Nightmare fuel, like regular fuel, has fossil reserves left by our precursors, untapped so far. But dreamers have been spotting prospectors.

lullaby:↵breathe quietly, they won’t hear you↵lie still, they won’t spot you↵think not, they won’t enter you↵wear your dreams as disguise ♫♪

Its honey is less dangerous, but the words are filtered through the beehive’s consciousness. Beekeepers eat it as an initiation rite.

experimentator’s notes: it was black tea I left for a bit too long (nearly cold), and the mug already had a patina from previous teas.

“Sorry but I must drink you now”↵[convects in frantic chaotic motion]↵”glug glug”↵[last convection cells are dying off]

I wish this were less impossible to film but my tea is clinging to the inner side of my mug in a thin film and just kinda… convecting.

During a rainstorm, one can find shelter under a tame skyjelly. The rain makes a very particular sound on them, like it makes on mushrooms.

When the jellyfish first rose from the ocean into the air, we were alarmed. But now, tamed, they float around our cities to light them.

felt the mace↵melt my face

You watch your thoughts like water flowing over stones under sunlight, fascinated. But increasingly, the water takes on a dirty reddish tint

There’s always this quarter that never produces news and that nobody has a memory of. It is as if something other than humans lives there.

Bottle your overflowing emotions for times of need. Oh yeah you’ll surely have a use for that shelf of crushing lethargy one day.

Babbage/Lovelace had their mechanical notation but their work looks to be digital, not analog. (diagrams here: http://blog.stephenwolfram.com/2015/12/untangling-the-tale-of-ada-lovelace/)

Raw physics would do the job but feels like its abstraction level is too low.

It would be nice to have a calculus (to account for translation, friction, perturbation, etc) to explore the design space programmatically.

Does clockwork have an analogy to circuit diagrams? All I see is finished assemblies and explosion diagrams which fall short of this.

they rush in panicked stampede, crushing their own underfoot, thought blood seeping into the soil↵those that make it have gashes and bruises

horror vacui’s obscure sibling, horror abundantis: the writer’s ideas pile up against the mind’s floodgates and they can’t write fast enough

A petting zoo for tiny volcanoes

It is considered very poetic justice. Speaking of which, some judges work poems into the verdicts, to be said with a man’s last breath.

her bones are twigs, her muscles grubs, her brain chrysalides, her skin butterflies↵a thousand wings form her voice↵she eats trees whole

Notably, this ship will not take you anywhere. Step on, step off, nothing will change. It is anchored with respect to all reference frames.

In a murder trial, one resides on the judge’s bench. Those guilty smoke it to recite their entire trial, then fall dead from lack of breath.

The firefig is rare, but even quicker: Bushfires have been known to be overgrown by them. The empty cores then preserve the fire’s negative.

Never sleep under a hunter fig. A relative of the strangler fig, its fruit will quickly engulf sleeping animals in roots and feed on them.

There is an orchid that looks like a human ear. Smoke its leaves, and all words ever spoken near it will force their way out of your mouth.

“For a proper dance, children, the down must follow the up and be enclosed by a swirl.” “What if I do a little jump there?” “NO NO NO WRONG”

In which folk dances are analyzed for their inherent grammar, and names put on the silliest little details, to be taught in school later

What do you put in a paper golem’s mouth?

Neurologists trying to find consciousness ~ Taking apart a human body to find the part that makes it human.

The original meaning of “see with the naked eye” has been lost to obscurity. They used it literally: Just a disembodied eyeball, perceiving.

We have met no aliens because none share our megalomania. Where we cover ever greater distances, they colonize the space between the atoms.