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

“One day, my dear”, says the valkyrie, “you may enter Týnhall, to dine with the forgotten. But your time has not come. Go back.”

404 girl, patron of searchers, is said to appear to only the most desperate of them, lost in the forgotten realms. https://twitter.com/allgebrah/status/776886139898789888/photo/1

the sun has gotten stuck in a tree just over the horizon and now the sunset isn’t ending, the vultures are already circling

“But dawn is gentle, it has no edge!” Well, not anymore anyway.↵She who stole it also took meaning, the easy life, at least three emotions,

Swords of the gods:↵Day’s Edge, forged from a stolen morning↵Zahn der Zeit, wrested from time’s maw itself↵Distinction, leaves nothing whole

So you want to attain higher consciousness? Fool! Changing a knot’s number requires its undoing. Your identity will not make it across!

Strange loops form only the most basic of consciousnesses. Higher levels require strange knots and are classified by their prime knots.

He tinkers day and night. One morning, finally free from the shackles of language, he enters ▁▂▃▄▅ ▉░▒▓▉▙⯬⯄⯮✀ ⛊⛊⛊⭆⬮⬮⬮⬯⛟⠙⠳⣄ 𝄾𝄿𝅀𝅁𝅂࿉࿉࿉ ࿉

the raindrops just kind of stop falling a meter over the ground and float along in the humid air like a bunch of wet marbles

a plasma wind buffets the dendrite prairies of an unnamed gas giant’s moon, discharges play along their swaying tips, deposit further ions

there’s an ocean behind your mirror, usually invisible but sometimes at night you faintly see something luminous swim by

amphibious clouds that soar the sky, then nosedive and underwater become swarms of air bubbles

dryad scholars debating the question of tree will

we are the birds that nest in the timelines, perch in the decision tree’s branches, sing to you in your sleep of what could have been

“No sweetie, those aren’t UFOs, those are sky maintenance drones! They change the stars when they break and make the sky not fall!”

Have a light smog problem? Our Firmament™ artificial skies may be just what you need! Custom constellations, extra moons, reusable meteors

What is a skull? It not only keeps the world out, it also keeps a mind from dissolving. The difference really comes down to skull thickness.

Minds exists in a sweet spot between isolation and dissolution. Too high the bandwidth and a mind starts to prefer the outside over itself.

A mind becomes its own universe the moment it’s sealed off from the outside. Conversely, universe becomes mind the moment it makes contact.

• Emails with Gödelian Inputs crashing brains around the globe • Some curiously unaffected, say they have experience not losing “The Game” •

“see that traffic dump? if you graph the sequence numbers of packets likely lost in the COLUMBUS III cable, it spells out A·▒·L·A·N·▒·I·S!”

The NSA has apophenic AIs fishing for steganographic messages. They are a jumpy bunch but kind of adorable if you can get one’s attention.

Have you tried weaving a narrative that makes the problem appear insignificant?

Sometimes, it settles in its nest behind the Moon. Such eclipsed, only superheated clouds of cooking Moon surface betray its presence.

one sunbird rides the plasma winds to Earth, enters an orbit, replaces the sun that is now a slowly cooling shell receding in the distance

morning has broken, no, hatched: with a roar, the sun breaks up into a swarm of blazing birds and the planets whizz off into all directions

a ray of light arrives from the stars, a death cry, a warning, full of purpose but nothing records it↵”look how it twinkles, how pretty”

They tow molecules together into palaces that last only microseconds, civilizations rise and fall in what we’d hear as a high-pitched whine.

Atomic faeries battle between the molecules, where conservation of energy is more of a guideline and a single photon is a terrible weapon.

Kickstart us to coax from Prometheus the other secrets the gods withheld, they’ll rain lightning on us but that’s no match for a livestream

seriously shit my whole harvest is ruined they’re all trying to find their “identities” now fuck, grimdark crystals pff more like flimflark

oh no who of you told my crystals about art, now they’re all trying to be unique, glittery and twisted instead of straight and translucent

you should get up but the act of creation is so joyful and all these jungles and civilizations will dissipate like smoke the moment you move

lie in bed and watch worlds grow, cover your body, the bed, the walls like mold, a hurricane no larger than a hand travels your pillow

“It’s actually fractal!” - “oh no NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR ACID VISIONS HIPPIE”↵”May I suggest a cubical-” - “no, fuck off to timecube”

The shape of cyberspace becomes a matter of much debate: “It’s flat!” “No, it’s round” “It’s both and there is a great firewall at its end!”

Afterwards, it’s sent back with fresh memories. Repeat for a while, and a shared personality should emerge, something that is both of you.

Penfriendship in the upload age: Split off part of yourself, send it to your friend. They then let it take part in their own life for a day.

That morning, the librarians return to empty pages. Tiny white roots sprout from them. Somehow, the smell of forest now permeates the aisles

Onlookers: “It was as if you - had somehow shone an acid trip through a floodlight. E- even the pavement made you cry with transcendence-”

recombine: Barbaric sentences flash up, unheard before. Fossil meaning escapes, illuminates the surrounding buildings with harsh brilliance.

Ghostfire rages in the library, leaves paper untouched but consumes all the words. They light up, utter themselves, vanish from the page,

low planes have high planes↵within their minds to describe ‘em↵these high planes have higher planes↵and so, ad infinitum

Ours is somewhere’s platonic plane. Further down, each of our snowflakes is sire to a whole genus and every thought a school of philosophy.

One of the Moon’s faces has been stolen (waning, third day). The lunar month is one day shorter for it. We won’t press charges, but please r

ground down to sand, it is nearly as yielding as the fluid, but if you dip your head in it, sharp edges will rend your thought like shrapnel

solid time, frozen and may trap you but also brittle, can be hammered into daggers that stop hearts, fill caskets that preserve loved ones

aggregate states of time:↵liquid, which flows↵gaseous, where causality dissolves and temporal eddies dance but leave heavy things unmoved