Going to attempt some watercolors. lets hope it goes well.

shelbycragg:

APOTHECIA is now available to read on Tapastic! Check it out and subscribe!

(via wecansexy)

Theres a few things I love most… A really pretty view… good music… and my coffee.

redasatomato:

misstressfortune:

penccils:

image

THATS SAD STOP IT

image

I TRIED TO MAKE IT LESS SAD WITH THIS DOODLE BUT THEN IT DIDN’T WORK FOR ME? ;A;

(Source: hauntbear, via resistantrez)

clearsfuwa:

Quality.

clearsfuwa:

Quality.

(via resistantrez)

cecil-swagger-palmer:

"SEE YOU IN THE FUCKING PIT, ASSHOLES."
I’m sorry is it too late to jump onto this meme?

cecil-swagger-palmer:

"SEE YOU IN THE FUCKING PIT, ASSHOLES."

I’m sorry is it too late to jump onto this meme?

(via homestuck-arts)

haaaast:

gamzee

haaaast:

gamzee

(via kingbrojohn)

cosbyykidd:

saturdaylynn:

youngblackandvegan:

kyleehenke:

I cannot be stopped

this is the most important video i’ve ever seen

Bruh

The dogs ain’t got time

(via girlyjames)

shadowofthelamp:

bec-blanche:

shadowofthelamp:

terminalcountdown:

hellzabeth:

pimpeta-slap:

psuliem:

mpregbert:

nagekis:

binart:

DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST SBURB SESSIONS FAIL

ok [LONG POST; APOLOGIES FOR PUTTING THIS ON YOUR LOVELY ART]
this made me wonder what happens to like
the players who go godtier in a dead session
because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever
until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie
and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever
and eventually
inevitably
the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring
because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken
and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore
just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying

NOTE TEAM MISFAIL: WE ARE ALL TO GO GODTIER AND KEEP EACH OTHER SANE OK? OK.

NOTE TAKEN CAPTAIN’

Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.
Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.
Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.
You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.
You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 
You cannot speak.
You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.
You cannot see.
You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 
You cannot hear. 
You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 
You do not exist.
You are one of many.
You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.
Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.
There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.

shadowofthelamp:

bec-blanche:

shadowofthelamp:

terminalcountdown:

hellzabeth:

pimpeta-slap:

psuliem:

mpregbert:

nagekis:

binart:

DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST SBURB SESSIONS FAIL

ok [LONG POST; APOLOGIES FOR PUTTING THIS ON YOUR LOVELY ART]

this made me wonder what happens to like

the players who go godtier in a dead session

because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever

until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie

and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever

and eventually

inevitably

the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring

because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken

and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore

just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying

NOTE TEAM MISFAIL: WE ARE ALL TO GO GODTIER AND KEEP EACH OTHER SANE OK? OK.

NOTE TAKEN CAPTAIN’

Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.

Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.

Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.

You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.

You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 

You cannot speak.

You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.

You cannot see.

You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 

You cannot hear. 

You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 

You do not exist.

You are one of many.

You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.

Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.

There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.

(via mangofedora)

saucyclassic:

this is intense

saucyclassic:

this is intense

(via pasteche)

Tags: madoka

cleromancy:

#i can’t decide if this bus is being supportive or threatening me

grimzeeart:

by NesoKaiyoH

The Makara Family 

(via xchrononautx)

dazzledbydisney:

 Spring Sprite

➥ The Firebird suite (Fantasia 2000)

(via pasteche)

basedona10000caloriediet:

kinzilauren:

maarkhoppus:

caucasianandwhite:

maarkhoppus:

fall out boy, paramore and justin timberlake on the iTunes top 10 charts wow hello 2006 

i wasnt even alive in 2006

image

why the fuck is a six year old on tumblr

image

(via pasteche)