Mole

Hello fellow roleplayers

Hi and welcome.

𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒎 - 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈

_{a poem | winner of mfp#14
impermanence & relationships}

[+]

<sub>Brief Tryst

Under the wings of the wind, you found me,
Amongst the wildflowers and carefree,
The death of yesteryear, alas ceasing,
A new morning, not frosted with mourning,
But cheery and bright, with delight and dreams,
A new beginning—young, running up stream,
Insouciant and dressed by yellow rays,
Is this how you thought we’d spend all our days?
But shrewd time waltzes in an endless ring,
Yesterday has already ceased to sing,
Tomorrow, comes-and-goes, on tippy-toes,
Falling from winter, you dream of new does.</sub>

RP Rules & Preferences - What do we look for nowadays?

Mole's Role Play Guidelines

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Dedication is a determining factor for posting deadlines. I am in games with both relaxed and rigid deadlines. Both styles are fun. It's knowing that the players are still dedicated to playing, whether there are long stretches of silence or less down-time in-between posts in.

Discord is a great tool. Good conversation creates good camaraderie. Possible conversations can range from questions, compliments, constructive criticism, or simply checking-in with everyone's well-being.

Aesthetics are sometimes overdone. Organized and stylish BBCoding makes a more consistent delivery. However, focusing too much on appearance can overwhelm players and distract from the narrative.

Face Claims are overrated. Story-telling is a powerful tool of the imagination. Part of good storytelling is trusting the audience's imagination. Any misconceptions may be used for out-of-character conversations and can help improve writing skills and reading comprehension.

Not every game requires players to have only one Main Character. If a player (and the Game Master agrees) that he can handle more than one MC, this potentially can add more to the story.

Non-Playable Characters create a dynamic game. Game Masters should not be responsible for carrying all the weight of pushing the narrative. NPCs give players more options with interacting inside the game's design.

Artificial Intelligence does not enhance gameplay. If a player isolates the problem between himself and a computer algorithm, it creates a loop that inhibits the player's ability to fully participate. Good conversation happens when a player seeks help from other players for writing queries.

Word association Game!

Light

Word association Game!

Omnipotent

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

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𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙽𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚊

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙹𝚘𝚋: 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙾𝚗𝚎

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝙳𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕’𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗’ 𝚠𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗’. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛-𝚝𝚑𝚎-𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚖-𝚟𝚊𝚗. 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝚄𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍. 𝚁𝚊𝚖𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍. 𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚒-𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙰𝚐𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚔. 𝙱𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢’𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 “𝚑𝚊𝚍-𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑” 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕-𝚝𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚣𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚣𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚜. 𝚂𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜. 𝙰 𝚔𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚎. 𝙸𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌.

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚝, 𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕. 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝙴𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙰𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚢, 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢. 𝙱𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙, 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜. 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚢. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚖 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎. 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜. 𝙰 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙽𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚗.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍. 𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍. 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚏 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚢. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍.

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚜. 𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚋. 𝚀𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚝. 𝚃𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚗. 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.

𝙱𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚢, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚢. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚓𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢, 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚞𝚙, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎.

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚗𝚞𝚋-𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗-𝚒𝚗-𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚊 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕.

𝙳𝚒𝚗𝚐-𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚐.

How high can we count before a mod gets involved?

238

the alphabet game. lol

Quill

Post a random fact about yourself.

I used to care what people thought about me.

What Are You Listening To?

"I've been drawing these robots with the pen you sent me."