i want to preorder this

how about no

cumpissshit

Potato yes

One of your philosophers said, "It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost in sorrow. There is no sorrow. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness." He was a shoemaker. He was right, and it matters more than anything.

According to him, the visible world is a manifestation of eternal light and eternal darkness, and it is in eternal opposition that eternity has revealed itself. The fall was necessary for creation to escape its first imperfect stasis and seek a truer form. Heresy? Well, then, I am the heresiarch. The philosopher died of a bowel disease. Those who do not exist cannot suffer and are of no account to any viable ethics. If the true path to goodness is the elimination of suffering, then only those who must exist can be allowed to exist. It is the nature of life to favor existence over nonexistence, and to prefer the fertile soil to the poisoned wind. Because those who open their mouths to that wind pass from the world and leave no descendant, whether of flesh or of thought.

But imagine the abomination of a world where nothing can end and no choice can be preferred to any other. Imagine the things that would suffer and never die. Imagine the lies that would flourish without context or corrective. Imagine a world without me.


We will return with a new message... s̴̛̥̥̪̩͇o̶̧̨̨̨̲̱͇̗̦̩̟̦̼͓̭̯͈̬͎̅̋̓͆̔͌͗̐́͛̂̃̚͠͠o̸̧̱̙̖̩̭̙̘͍͎̻̪̘̹͓̯̲̻͈͍̅̋̀͂̇͐̃͊͐̓̆̀̐͜͝ͅͅͅņ̶̨̨̨̮̩̮̜̙͈̺̦̫̖͕̞̪̫̭̪̟̪͒̒̐͛̊͗͗̉̓̐̎̏̇̉̀̋̄̒̕͜ͅ

HAHA, me smash rock with rock
hnng

https://prnt.sc/t9xcn7


















p̷̢̢̡̢̡͍͖̹͍͈̩̖̠̥͙̯͍̱̗̭͎͖̺̬̱̘̠͉̖̱̺͇̩͔̤̞͉̼͕̥̟͖̦̻̟̫͚͉̱̩͎̤̼̞̜̳̅̍̋̐̈͊̎̑̅̊̀̅̽͜͜͠͠ͅơ̷̛̛̛̛̭̹͓͎̩̪̣̮̎̓̅̓́͛̾̅͛́̉̐͑͌͒͆̽͐̋̽̈́̉̒͒̃͆̑̈́̍͋̆̌͆͌͑̋̋̆̎̐͗͗̉͌͌̇͌̿͛͂́̽͒̇̆͑͆͛̓͗̍͐̋͑͊̑́͗̌̊̽̎̈́̋̿͒̔̔͗͋͌̑́͑̓̓͑́̊͑͛͘̚̚͘̚͘͘͝͠͠͝͝ơ̸̡̝̹͉̝̮̾̈̉͆̓̈̇̎̅̂̃̐̓͂̉̅͗͒̆̔̈́̂͌̃̅̐̅͌̓̍͑̇̅̂͌͆̕̕͘͠ ̵̧̡̧̢̨̨̢̨̢̨̡̡͉̝̖͕̙͔̱̘̰̜̩̼̣̮̪̰̣̘̣͉̠͎̞̣̘̦͙̬̹̣̠͈̮͓̰͈̻̭̝͇̦̯̣͕̯̰̣̭̦̯̟̫̭̩͚͍̮̳̣͎̭̠͍̰̺̜̍̔̇̎̽͋̀̃͋͐̋̂́̋̎̈́́͛͌̔̒̍͛̆̔̈́̉̋́̈́͛̉͗͒̊̓̎̐́̌̎̈́̽͆͛̉͒́̽́́̀̊̃͆̓̍̍̚̚͘̕͜͠͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅp̸̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̦̘̤̘͈̻̩̥̻̫̯̗̻̥͓̮̜̜̣̪̟͕̥̖͇̯͕͍̻̼̙̫̭̪̼͉̻̱̘͉̜͙̺̜̤͓͈̤͇̜̍̎̔̇̀̇̊͂̃͒̒͛̽͋́̓̿́̓̑͂̂̊͒͒͆͐̾̎̓̂̾̔̌͛͐̅̈͋͐͊̇̀̅̿̿͆́̽̽̃̅̾̄̌̐̿̇̌̿̊̂̃̓̈͑̆̽̆̎͊̇͒́̃̑̀̾́́͗̾̈́̾̽̄̓̀̉̊͑̎͂̚̕̕͘̚͘̚̕͜͝͠͠͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅö̴̢̡̡̨̡̨̢̬͔̲̞͉͙̼̻̫̮̫̗͈̮̭̪͈͔̣̳̙̙̣͍̝͔͓̬̻̰̙̗̘͙̻́̔́̓͂̍̄̊̀̓͌͐̍̈́͒̓̎̓͊̋̕ǫ̶̢̧̢̨̛̛̳̥͈̗͈̗̗̥̜̝̩̟̮͎̗͔̹͖̮̩̥̳̗͚̺͓̟̣̼̗̰̖̠̠͚̭̱͖͕͓͉͎̼̣̳̠̥̱̻̯͉̗̱̬̣̪̞͚̬̖̮͇̪̙͍̲͍̠̖͉͇̳̬͈̼̲̭̈́̈́͛̐̀̃̅͐̑͑̄̌͂̑̄͆̔̇̽̒̾̋͆̉̓̄̎̈́̃̎̾́̋͊́̑̅̉̅̈́̓̄̄̍̍̾̈́͗̈́̑̈́͐͒̒̆͌̊̿͑̈́͒͊̓̄͒͛̄̉̀̇̇̀͆̇̽͌̏͂́̓̋͊̊͐̃͂̊̇͋́̐̾͗͑̌͗̿͋͛̽̔̈́̈́͂̓͌̂̾̚̚̕̕̚͘̚̕̚͜͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅ ̶̨̡̡̧̡̨̢̧̧̢̨̨̧̢̡̤͎̜͇̪̞̻̯̻͔͎͉͙̱̪͎͓̫͚̮̞̗̝͚̲̙̣̫̲͍̟̱͓̮̫̮̻̳̠̙̣̦̤̬̥͙͕̳͓͇͉̘̦̻̝̖̤̥̦̺͖̠̠̟͔̼͖̩͔̺̪̭̗̬̫̣͓̝̳̰̦͙̬̻̼͉͎͎̩͕͉̯̝̗̱̳̙̗͓͎͇̜͉̎͆̏͂̐̆̋̔̅̈̎̅̒̽̽̂̏͆̓͊̓͑͐̏̄̅̈̾̅̏̈͊͂́̔̊̍̈́͂̃́̓̈́̿͑̈́͐̔̏̌̅̅̎̅̏͌́̅̆̾͂̏̅́̓̿̃͋̑̎̒̏̀͋̐̋̇̐̽͑̓͛̌̒͋̈́̚͘͘͘̚͠͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅş̵̨̧̢̡̡̨̡̢̡̨̛͚̥̗͉̝͓͕̩̬̙̦̳̮̘̭̤͕̫͉̗̳̻̟̙̤̯͔̻͕̙̻̮̤̠̣̻͖͖̯̯̪̠̬͖͕̲̠̣̣̮͕̜̮̠͓̪͈͉̺̥̹̺̬̫̫͖̣̫̤̪͕̭̯̲̖̭̲̳͈̮̥̯̟̤͔̦̣͍̼̘̦͍̠̭̳͙͖͔͈̝̣̥͈̙̻͉̩̘̗̥̯̰̱͌̍̑͂̌͗͐̓̇͊̃̉̎̽̓͋͑̈́̾̈̇̃̆̂́̾́̎͗͊̂́̆̋̋͗̿̑̓̂͋͐̔͐͑̇͊̿̒͆͗̾͌̿̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͠͝͝ͅͅͅȩ̴̢̢̢̢̧͎̣̳͔̱͙͔̭̰̰̟͇͓̠̭̙̦̣͈̭̱̱̲̬̹̖͖̠̝̯̜̩͔̳͎̰̬͇̼̙̻͚͎̬̗̠͈̦̳͕͍̦̼̞̺̖̻̤̭͔̥͉̯̟̞̝͔̱̥̥͎̼̞̬̲̖̬̘͍͔̤͈͇̱̼̬͓̣̙͍̩̖͓̳̱̻͉͓̜̙̦͉̠̌̄̽̆͋͌̓̊̈́̇̃̆͛̌̀͊̚͘͜͝x̶̢̡̡̛̫̙̖̪̳͓͖͙̣̬̗̝̝͚̲̩̥͎̮̟̥̞̰̦̭̻͉̯̲̞̱͖̱̯̞̰̣̝͍̑̉̅́̉͂̈́̅̐͒̉̑̔̇̔̌̈́̋͊̅̂̃͌͒̈́̆́̾̓̀͗̾̽͂͛̇͒̀̓̊̈́̑̇̂̈́̓̏̈̈́̃͑̄̇̾̈̀͐̋̈́̌͐͋̅̃͆͊͐̒̔̓̐͑̆͑̏̊̂̕̚̕̕͜͠͠͝

Something's deep. I can feel it.

Once upon a time,* a gardener and a winnower lived** together in a garden.***

* It was once before a time, because time had not yet begun.
** We did not live. We existed as principles of ontological dynamics that emerged from mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes.
*** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence.

They existed, because they had to exist. They had no antecedent and no constituents, and there is no instrument of causality by which they could be portioned into components and assigned to some schematic of their origin. If you followed the umbilical of history in search of some ultimate atavistic embryo that became them, you would end your journey marooned here in this garden.

In the morning, the gardener pushed seeds down into the wet loam of the garden to see what they would become.

In the evening, the winnower reaped the day's crop and separated what would flourish from what had failed.

The day was longer than all of time, and the night was swifter than a glint of light on a falling sugar crystal. Insects buzzed between the flowers, and worms slithered between the roots, feeding on what was and what might be, the first gradient in existence, the first dynamo of life. Rain fell from no sky. Voices spoke without mouth or meaning. A tree of silver wings bloomed yielded fruit shed feathers bloomed again.

In the day between the morning and the evening, the gardener and the winnower played a game of possibilities.


We will return with another message... s̷̥̫̫̄̽͜ͅͅő̷̪̫̟̮̰̯͌̈́͋̾͆o̶̹̳̼͙̗͌͊̈́̈͗̐͋̅n̸̞̗͆̇͌̂̋͆̚̚

Very inspiring

tl;dr

Originally posted by S̸a̴l̶v̸a̵t̴i̸o̵n̵ ̴:

Once upon a time,* a gardener and a winnower lived** together in a garden.***

* It was once before a time, because time had not yet begun.
** We did not live. We existed as principles of ontological dynamics that emerged from mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes.
*** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence.

They existed, because they had to exist. They had no antecedent and no constituents, and there is no instrument of causality by which they could be portioned into components and assigned to some schematic of their origin. If you followed the umbilical of history in search of some ultimate atavistic embryo that became them, you would end your journey marooned here in this garden.

In the morning, the gardener pushed seeds down into the wet loam of the garden to see what they would become.

In the evening, the winnower reaped the day's crop and separated what would flourish from what had failed.

The day was longer than all of time, and the night was swifter than a glint of light on a falling sugar crystal. Insects buzzed between the flowers, and worms slithered between the roots, feeding on what was and what might be, the first gradient in existence, the first dynamo of life. Rain fell from no sky. Voices spoke without mouth or meaning. A tree of silver wings bloomed yielded fruit shed feathers bloomed again.

In the day between the morning and the evening, the gardener and the winnower played a game of possibilities.


We will return with another message... s̷̥̫̫̄̽͜ͅͅő̷̪̫̟̮̰̯͌̈́͋̾͆o̶̹̳̼͙̗͌͊̈́̈͗̐͋̅n̸̞̗͆̇͌̂̋͆̚̚

yo this shit is kinda lit, gimme more

Originally posted by Pyramid:

Originally posted by S̸a̴l̶v̸a̵t̴i̸o̵n̵ ̴:

Once upon a time,* a gardener and a winnower lived** together in a garden.***

* It was once before a time, because time had not yet begun.
** We did not live. We existed as principles of ontological dynamics that emerged from mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes.
*** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence.

They existed, because they had to exist. They had no antecedent and no constituents, and there is no instrument of causality by which they could be portioned into components and assigned to some schematic of their origin. If you followed the umbilical of history in search of some ultimate atavistic embryo that became them, you would end your journey marooned here in this garden.

In the morning, the gardener pushed seeds down into the wet loam of the garden to see what they would become.

In the evening, the winnower reaped the day's crop and separated what would flourish from what had failed.

The day was longer than all of time, and the night was swifter than a glint of light on a falling sugar crystal. Insects buzzed between the flowers, and worms slithered between the roots, feeding on what was and what might be, the first gradient in existence, the first dynamo of life. Rain fell from no sky. Voices spoke without mouth or meaning. A tree of silver wings bloomed yielded fruit shed feathers bloomed again.

In the day between the morning and the evening, the gardener and the winnower played a game of possibilities.


We will return with another message... s̷̥̫̫̄̽͜ͅͅő̷̪̫̟̮̰̯͌̈́͋̾͆o̶̹̳̼͙̗͌͊̈́̈͗̐͋̅n̸̞̗͆̇͌̂̋͆̚̚

yo this shit is kinda lit, gimme more

Soon.

Originally posted by S̸a̴l̶v̸a̵t̴i̸o̵n̵ ̴:

Originally posted by Pyramid:

yo this shit is kinda lit, gimme more

Soon.

ight see you

Originally posted by Pyramid:

Originally posted by S̸a̴l̶v̸a̵t̴i̸o̵n̵ ̴:

Once upon a time,* a gardener and a winnower lived** together in a garden.***

* It was once before a time, because time had not yet begun.
** We did not live. We existed as principles of ontological dynamics that emerged from mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes.
*** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence.

They existed, because they had to exist. They had no antecedent and no constituents, and there is no instrument of causality by which they could be portioned into components and assigned to some schematic of their origin. If you followed the umbilical of history in search of some ultimate atavistic embryo that became them, you would end your journey marooned here in this garden.

In the morning, the gardener pushed seeds down into the wet loam of the garden to see what they would become.

In the evening, the winnower reaped the day's crop and separated what would flourish from what had failed.

The day was longer than all of time, and the night was swifter than a glint of light on a falling sugar crystal. Insects buzzed between the flowers, and worms slithered between the roots, feeding on what was and what might be, the first gradient in existence, the first dynamo of life. Rain fell from no sky. Voices spoke without mouth or meaning. A tree of silver wings bloomed yielded fruit shed feathers bloomed again.

In the day between the morning and the evening, the gardener and the winnower played a game of possibilities.


We will return with another message... s̷̥̫̫̄̽͜ͅͅő̷̪̫̟̮̰̯͌̈́͋̾͆o̶̹̳̼͙̗͌͊̈́̈͗̐͋̅n̸̞̗͆̇͌̂̋͆̚̚

yo this shit is kinda lit, gimme more

wait, what?

i thought that was you who wrote all this