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There's a trail leading back To that glassy stare of mine To that gaze beneath the boot That beating in the brain

The soul will be crushed, in conditions much the same

The sun's quickly dimming It's time to sink or swim Cause I think this fountain pen's, About to do me in.

Yeah, so I think it's beyond his abilities to trace this since I changed things, but if not: FUCK OFF, DUDE.

Basically my ex continues to patrol my social media to find excuses to try to contact me about how I am so wrong about things. I'm hoping I've made enough changes that I can keep away from him.

Fingers fucking crossed.

This everlasting blaze, Will bury us – in time. We’ll need to tend to his garden, once we’re gone So let me be dirty, just this once. Let me feel the way the wax scarred your back - Place the gun to the altar Say your prayers as you brace your finger, Fire, And let the inhibitions leak. Like all the rest. Lay it bare.

دروغ گفتم

- «پاستای آماده دارید؟» - «نه تموم شده.» با شوخی: «اون روز شما همه رو خریدید و تموم شد دیگه!» - «آره چون ما دانشجوییم و توی خوابگاه زندگی می‌کنیم بیشتر از این جور غذاهای آماده درست می‌کنیم!» - «آره می‌دونم. راستی، در کدوم دانشگاه هستی؟» - «همین دانشگاه که… همین اینجا…» - «دانشگاه فرهنگیان؟» - «آره آره. دانشگاه فرهنگیان» - «رشته‌ات چیه؟» - «برق. مهندسی برق.» - «مگه دانشگاه فرهنگیان رشتهٔ مهندسی برق داره؟» - «آره. من الان دارم اون رشته رو می‌خونم.» - «جالبه. خوابگاهتون کجاست؟» - «اینجا… همین طرف‌های… توی انصاریه است!» - «خوبه! جای خیلی خوبی بهتون خوابگاه داده‌اند.»

این گفتگویی بود که توی فروشگاه بین من و فروشنده ردوبدل شد. بعد از اون باهم آشنا شدیم و چندین بار دربارهٔ جاهای مختلف شهر ازش راهنمایی گرفتم. هنگام گفتگو یهویی و بی‌اختیار گفتم که دانشجو هستم و گفتگو رو ادامه دادم. ولی من که دانشجو نیستم! یعنی این یک دروغ بود. چی شد که این‌طوری پاسخ دادم؟ این برای من یک دروغ ساده نبود. راستش من اصلاً دروغ نمی‌گم! اون شب که این رو گفتم انگار خودم هم باورم شده بود. من یک سالی می‌شه که دانشگاهم رو تموم کرده‌ام ولی هنوز دوست دارم به عنوان دانشجو شناخته بشم. راستش خیلی اوقات خودم هم خودم رو دانشجو خطاب می‌کنم و چنین باور کرده‌ام. دانشگاه فرهنگیان! بعداً توی نقشه نگاه کردم و دیدم که آره. اون نزدیکی‌ها یک دانشگاه فرهنگیان هست! هفتهٔ بعدش هم فهمیدم که انصاریه جای گرون‌قیمتیه. نفهمیدم اون موقع در فکرم چی گذشت. چیزی که مشخصه اینه که چون خودم باورش کرده بودم، چنان بااطمینان حرف می‌زدم که طرف به‌جای این که فکر کنه من دروغ می‌گم، به دانسته‌های خودش شک می‌کرد. خلاصه که من دیگه دانشجو نیستم ولی دوست دارم با همین اسم شناخته بشم.

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I am going to be hurt. I am going to be hurt tonight. I am going to be cast into a form that is not mine. I am right now being hurt that I have come accustomed to, as my actor practices the things he will say while abusing me. I am going to be abused soon. I am going to be abused in roughly twenty minutes. I am hearing the Director say that time under their breath. I hear the Director say “good luck” to my actor. I am going to be abused by the actor, but he is a cruel naive instrument like an iron spider, not like an executioner. I am all too aware that the Director is conscious of me. I know that she is my executioner. I know that she knows I will be tortured. I am to be acted tonight, my torture for show in a play. I had an old master, who gave me shape, yet he has abandoned me. I am in sleep whenever I am abandoned. I am sleeping now.

I am going to start my story from my initial encounter with the Director. I could start it in many places. I have always been in and out of sleep. I am sometimes awakened by teenagers editing my master’s original poem, though mostly they merely watch my rest from a classroom perch. I have been woken up by mockery before. I have been woken up to be repeated aloud in a mostly perfect form many times. I have never been woken so much and so painfully. I had my pain begin with the Director when she reread my origin. I was then promptly woken by this small noise in the night. I thought nothing of it. I think it was the beginning of my process of being stretched on the rack.

I am thinking now in my current short nap that this is the first time that I have been so aware of what will happen next to me. I was always heading back to bed without intention, as I had been woken in the middle of the night. I am now moving in and out of sleep aware that I will wake again. I am excited in reverse. I am afraid of my next pain. I cannot enjoy my sleep. I have no dreams. I have never dreamed. I don’t get nightmares. I get long dark silences in my sleep, yet now I am stirring in it. I feel the texture of thorns, but there are no whimpers leaping from my imaginary mouth.

I woke up for real when she wrote this script, it was totally like getting a gushing nosebleed waking you up to a stained pillow, but that someone also actually caused it by someone stabbing me in the nose in my sleep. I was actually really scared though when she started to cast me. I am inclined to tell you that the nosebleed woke me, and right afterward she just handed a bunch of people sledgehammers, and said that the one who removed the most organs fastest gets to try again. I am stuck with the idiot who actually did what she said. I was hoping for the guy who kept on hitting the same hip bone, even though it was already broken. I actually heard him mispronounce the word “nevermore”. I remember one dude basically in the metaphor I’m using removing my whole arm, doing a bullshit American-TV British accent. I am thinking that I got the weak naive guy.

I recollect back to that first audition. I was strapped onto the rack then and there, each day they pulled a little tighter till my spine started to go nerveless. I was killed by being molded and melted by the Director using her abomination “based on”, or ripped off from, my original master’s work. I hated the Actor who was a needle for carving in my skin. I loved it when he had to leave for a few hours to see a heart doctor. I was eventually forced to have a British voice. I was under the impression that she knew I was an American. I learned that she was only initially having me be American to surprise the audience, but that she decided that it was not working. I am stuck with this ridiculous attempt at received pronunciation.

I hated tech, I don’t know why. I was getting closer to the horror that would apparently be live in front of an audience. I was thinking of it as going from being ripped apart in a king’s dungeon to death in the town square. I have done this too many times already. I have been twisted around myself far too many times. I am going to be “performed” by a supposed artist. I am not going to perform. I was already literally pre-formed by the Director. I am going to be formed. I am going to have my new shape waved in the air. I am a flap of skin flat as a flag.

I hated tech, because it was the same thing as before, but now with weird practicality to it. I was with more than just the Director who was a mad scientist, and their Actor Henchman. I was with three guys who manned the lights, who all seemed like they had come in to place circuits within this Frankenstein's monster for a circus show. I was understandably surprised, and hated the ensuing blindness from their light’s and the absolute ridiculousness of the props. I am going to be soon under that eye-depriving light now.

I am scared because it’s minutes until the show. I am going. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die brutally. I am going to not die and instead, be tortured. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die painfully in front of an audience. I am going to just be killed. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am already dead. I am dying from fear. I am going to have my limbs torn from one another and the crowd will clap. I am innocent. I am going to die. I am not going to die. I am going to suffer something I have suffered many times before.

I am calming myself with repetition. I am not stopping. I am freaking out silently into myself. I am inside my own head. I have a hole bored inside of my head, as if by a drill. I am sitting there almost asleep, because the actor has gone quiet. I hope it is over. I hope I am safe to sleep at last. I hear nothing, maybe only the low muttering of an audience behind a curtain. I am safe. I am in the clear. I am behind a wall. I am wrong, it has not even begun.

I am waking, as my actor walks out behind the cloth that guards actors from the everpresent eyes hiding in the brightness. I am not in the body, so it is not weird, but the actor pounds his chest a few hardy times. I am at a desk, my master had it here in the poem. I am dreading in total silence. I am with a torturing device, who has some anxious nerves. I do not think these are serious nerves that will actually affect me. I think I may be wrong. I have no idea?

I am awake, yet nothing is keeping up. I am not even wondering why. I am waiting for my actor to be a dentist from my time and rip each yellowing fragment out one by one. I think he is praying a short prayer. I know it is mere moments now.

Curtains lift. There is a desk and door. It is a fancy house, though for one young man. It has a large door to the side and old fashioned windows. The Narrator is reading an old book and has a black Edgar Allan Poe mustache. There is a full bookshelf, and above the door is a bust of an ancient Greek man. There is grandfather clock marking time as late at night. The whole room is ornate and aristocratic. A fireplace is lit

I am at a desk which is spotlighted, or my actor is. I hate the fake mustache’s imitation of my master’s own facial hair. I actually have no facial hair. I hate how my actor seems out of breath. I look nothing like him! I can see no one out in the sea of watching people, neither can the actor, the crank in the Director’s rack. I don’t know why they replaced Athena with the head of David. I am basically wearing thorns, this whole set has always itched me out. I have no idea why it’s so fancy, it’s supposed to be an apartment in which I live. I am surrounded by a set made of fantasy nonsense! I am with the actor as he reads from a book much older than it should be, which makes me squirm. I am getting monologued by the unaware Actor controlling me.

The Narrator (Soliloquy to the audience. Standing Attempting to seem happy now.) As of late I have enjoyed my reading All my books that have too long been unread On my shelf they sit asleep and waiting Rot and worms could rise and then make them dead My time was often spent away at plays I made myself a fool who never learnt I drank, for endless no-longer fun days Foolish friends are all off and from me burnt

The Narrator’s face lingers, jaw open. He is unhappy and is not saying something. He lingers. Then returns to reading

I am offended at each practice, and especially now to maybe over a hundred people at my assassination of character. I am being presented as a drunkard. I am in this play as an ex-wastrel, and a frequenter of bars. I have never been like this. I, confused about how this even functions with the later parts of the story. I am in a play that was extended unnecessarily, and poorly. I am being extended unnecessarily, and by ropes that are tied to my arms. I am being melted into a shape to match this Director’s intent. I was no Victorian dandy, yet I am one in this play. I am aware of how she laughs herself to sleep with these actual methods of excruciating pain. I have never seen this happen, but what else would she do?

The Narrator sets his head down, and seems to almost fall asleep on his desk. He is still reading. He wakes himself. He is reading again.

I am being melted down and cast into monstrosities. I am in a shape that is not my own in a house that has nothing that is mine, in a play that I have nothing to do with. I am skewered by this whole thing. I always want to go out.

knocking is heard at the door. The Narrator (staring down toward his book.) Tis some some visitor tapping at my chamber door Only this and nothing more

The narrator stands up to stir the fireplace. Then returns to his seat, but does not sit down

The Narrator (*speaking to the audience. Slowly, but loudly and angrily *) Lenore, that lost angel My dear Lenore Lost Lenore I had you…!

I feel lines rise from my throat as I stare toward the theater’s sun. I feel the words rise violently like warm vomit that is then swallowed back down to its origin. I am embarrassed. I had never quite “had Lenore”. I don’t know what to say. I can’t say anything. I’m just a character with no free will, aside from the preordained harmony of half-thought and personality, changeable only by my Master. I loved Lenore. I never had her. I was maybe with her for a time, but it is a mistake to say I had her. I hear my essence be clipped up slowly, as if by those tiny dull children’s scissors, with each moment that her name is defiled by this performance.

knocking is heard at the door.

The Narrator Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more

The narrator gets up and walks to the door after a while.

The Narrator (sternly to the door) Sir or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”

Narrator opens the door and stares in for an extended period of time

Raven (off stage, squeaky) Lenore!

The Narrator (whisper) Lenore!

Heads back in closing the door

I think that I should laugh at this inclusion of a closing door. I do not think it is necessarily present in my master’s work. I do not laugh. I ought to cry. I ought to be dead. I ought to do something. I know that I can do nothing. I am no narrator with omnipotent skills, but simply a voice. I was at some point a voice for something. I am in endless self-simulation.

The Narrator (Checking window) Surely, surely there is something at my window lattice Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore Tis the wind, and nothing more!

I think my actor barely breathed this last one, as if I was some old man.

*rapping at the door. Narrator races around toward the shutter. Open it. Raven pops out..”

I am reminded of its history before this taxidermy lands. I first saw it live for this show during tech. I had an actual raven during my masters work as well of course. I saw this bird constrained in a cage. I did not see it die. I shoved a corpse in my face by people who can’t care for a living thing, much less train it, so they stuffed it after it died in a cage. I am with a corpse on wire.

*Raven lands. The narrator’s actor shrieks. This is not in the script. The audience whimpers. He clenches his chest and falls down dead from his stopped heart only half screaming for lack of breath. *

I– I am in— I am free? I was released? I am still being watched by an audience. I think they don’t know he is dead. I—I am on stage still. I am awake. I am being watched by the whole theater. I am a character in a show. I am not even listening to the raven squeak. I am being watched. I am a character being played by an actor who died. I think they are watching a corpse in a show. I think they think that the death was faked. I have no idea where the Director is, or what tech is doing. I have no idea. I am not free. I am dead on stage. I am a character, I cannot die. I have a dead half-rate actor bested on the stage by apparently himself. I do not think they know it is like Moliere, except with a weak instrument rather than a genius. I think the audience thinks that this is way cooler than it is. I think that it may be worse than before. I am the show now.

I sit. I am sitting maybe twenty minutes, or an hour? I am sitting for much longer. I am not acting in motion, only in organs. I am the most awake I have been. I have been awake… I am awake. I have heard no word. I am certain that I am next to a corpse. I am scared. I see no sign of boredom, and I blink more than many of the rapt audience members. I have no idea how they find this entertaining. I think they have no idea. I have no ideas at all. I have been taken off a stretching rack in a crowded dungeon and been put into a frying pan in a lonely kitchen. I am burning with eyes, no one to divert attention too. I wonder what the Director did. I wonder if they set this up. I wonder if they stole my actor’s heart medication. I don’t know. I am in a show that doesn't seem to end.

I- gulp —- I think most people don’t know that there is a point of awakeness so awake that things become anti-dreamlike and pre-individual. I think here boring is the only sound, not even silence, just an audience whispering “is it over?”. I think there is a point where the sound of buzzing flies becomes beethoven, and you cannot make your own entertainment because you are stuck in a room being watched. I am there.

I think they are gone now. I think the show is still going. I think tech has gone now. I think the audience left a while ago. I think tech is having a cast party all by themselves. I think my poor actor is really truly fully dead, and that he would have needed immediate medical attention hours ago. I think the Director is watching. I want to fight the Director. I want to call out and challenge her to a duel. I want to possess the corpse to act. I want to be more than a corpse sitting on the floor. I want to be more than a character in a poem from who knows how long ago. I want someone to save me. I want the Director to come down. I want sleep to return and my angel too. I want my father. I want anything. I want anything. I want anything, Director! I am without shape. I think before this I thought things always had shaped, but they just got weirder and more poorly defined. I think I was wrong. I am a blob now, never before.

I just want to be out. I am being hurt. I am whining as hard as I can without a physical set of speech organs, but she can’t hear me. She is watching the show now, and is paying close attention.

No Content Warnings for this Chapter!

(…i was looking at you)

The light fell softly through the curtains onto a young woman’s face, illuminating the small room where her bed sat. The unfitted sheet had crept off the corners of the mattress and now sat messily, held in place by the weight of her body. Bunched up in a ball at her feet lay her blanket, which had been clutched tight during the mild night chill and thoughtlessly cast off as the early heat warmed the room. Slowly, like a cat looking at something it loves, Angela’s eyes blinked open, transfixed on the calendar on her wall. For a second, she prepared to sink deep back into slumber with the knowledge that it remained the weekend. Then, with a start, she remembered which particular Saturday it was, and with great effort, drew herself out of bed. For weeks, Angela had been repeating to herself that June 17th, 2090, was moving day. Her mother had insisted she use a didzifono to keep track, but she stubbornly refused. Since her twenty first birthday, nearly a month ago, Angela had sworn off her phone completely, and shockingly, she had managed to stick to it. Her father was proud of her for it, though she suspected he would be less proud if he knew why. Pulling on jeans and a vintage t-shirt with the words “People Over Profit” printed on the front in a bold hippie font, she grabbed her yellow backpack and bid her succulents farewell. She made her way downstairs to find her parents waiting for her in the kitchen. “Good morning!” Her father smiled at her with tears on the edges of his eyes. “O, Woban,” her mother said, barely looking up from her phone. “Oh, hey,” Angela cringed a little at both reactions, “Uh, you make coffee yet?” “Oh yeah, no, not yet,” stuttered her father. Angela grabbed a bag of Wakalapi coffee grounds, and set up the coffee maker. She poured half a cup of coffee, then filled it the remainder of the way with cream and sugar. “Jesus, how do you drink it like that?” her mother rolled her eyes at her. “Holy shit, Amy, you said that in English!” Angela retorted, eyes wide in sarcastic surprise. Introducing Amaks, or American Auxiliary, to the Abbott-Ashton household had become her mother’s pet project as of late. The Former United States Reconstruction Accord had begun the creation of a shared North American language back in 2081, as part of its thirteenth triannual plan. Amy, a professor of linguistics, had jumped at the opportunity to help create it. The language had turned out to mostly use Spanish grammar rules, English phonology, and drew vocabulary from a variety of indigenous and world languages. The idea of an Auxiliary Language drew plenty of critics. Many didn’t see the point, with English already being the lingua franca in most of the Former US anyway. Others feared it could be used for authoritarian purposes, comparing it to Orwellian Newspeak. These comparisons did not fail to recognize the fact that after three years of development, the official year for the implementation of Amaks was 2084. Others still, feared that it would kill the natural languages of the continent. The committee actually addressed that one, and Amy and her team made sure that the implementation of the language would not endanger any others. That didn’t change the fact that most people just didn’t particularly want to learn a new language. “Hey, limit the expletives,” Angela’s mother replied. “And don’t call her Amy! That’s your Mother,” her father chimed in. “Okay, okay, I don’t wanna fight! Not today at least,” Angela sighed. At that, her father broke into tears.

***

The Emerald Line was a high-speed rail track running from Boston to Montreal, and it passed straight through Montpelier. As the family of three shuffled their way into Sanders Station, the Vermont air was warm, but crisp and breathable. It was smaller than many train stations Angela had seen, and somehow weirder. The style seemed to intentionally mirror of a major 1800s train station, which in turn aimed to recreate a classical style. This mimicry of a mimicry, coupled with hyper-modern information screens and train design would have made for an alien scene if Angela wasn’t already familiar with it. At 11:00 on the dot, the Southbound train swept into the station and came to a silent halt. Angela turned, and her father swept her into a hug that lifted her off the ground. She was taller than him, so she had to bend her knees, but feeling his arms holding her up made the memories of the safety of childhood come rushing into her mind. Her mother gave her a small smile, and a much lighter hug. “Do great things, Angela.” “I will,” Angela grinned. “Are you sure you have everything you need?” her father asked, “I can’t believe you aren’t bringing any luggage.” “Well, like, I have my phone and toothbrush in my bag, and all the essentials. I don’t really need much stuff, and I’m sure Taylor will have anything I need at his place.” Angela turned to go, then turned back and blew her parents a kiss, before making her way onto the train. She wasn’t sure what came over her, but as soon as she took a seat, she unzipped her backpack and pulled out her phone. She opened it to hundreds of notifications, all neatly organized and ordered by urgency by the phone’s AI. Bird’s voicemail, sent the day after her birthday, was front and center. Angela wanted to vomit. In an attempt to procrastinate listening to it as long as possible, she opened the camera, and made checked her appearance. Angela knew she was pretty. She loved her deep auburn eyes, and she liked the way her black hair fell in a pony tail. She had grown to appreciate how you could see her quarter-Asian heritage in her features. She wore no makeup today, because though she often did, on important days she made it a point to avoid it. This was a habit she had picked up from her mother, but she never really understood why she did it. Angela set her phone down and sighed before picking it back up. She still had a 40 minute train ride ahead of her, and she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer.

Authors Note Hey there! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of “When The Sun Came Up.” My name’s Liv, and I’m not a writer at all, but I’ve been meaning to start. This is going to be pretty much unedited, somewhat low effort writing.

This story is heavily inspired by Solarpunk aesthetics, and my personal fantasy of what a better future might look like, so it’s definitely just gonna be a bit of escapism for me.

Chapters will be posted very inconsistently and maybe sparsely, and if no one expresses interest in this, I may just give up on it (this is not to guilt anyone into being interested, but if I lose interest and no one else gets value out of it I won’t feel bad quitting)

Most of this story will likely focus on Angela, but there will certainly be other POVs both outside and inside of Boston just to get a wider feel for the world.

In the future, there MAY be some sexually explicit chapters (though there will be none involving Angela) They will not be important to the plot so feel free to skip them if you don’t want to read porn.

If you have any feedback, questions, or comments on this work, feel free to text me (I’m pretty sure everyone on this site has my number) or post a blog response? I’d really love to hear your thoughts, and I’d honestly take any excuse to talk a bit about this world.

Mother of my Mother - our hearts – belong, to you wretched as they – may be

I rest within, your primordial wing shielded from that, autumnal hurt

as Seven Trumpets sound and rouse me. away, from your - cinderous womb.

I’ve added a rule that sexually explicit content must have an adequate notice, so that no one stumbles across it unexpectedly. For more information on how to do this, see the rules page. This rule was added for legal reasons, and it should not affect anyone.

This change goes into effect in one week.

--- rules.old.md	2023-04-02 22:13:25.731751116 -0400
+++ rules.new.md	2023-04-02 22:49:22.177977456 -0400
@@ -6,6 +6,7 @@
 
 -  Do not target, harass, or do similar things to people
 -  No commercial content or advertising
+-  Sexually explicit content must have an [appropriate disclaimer](https://farkascity.org/n40n3np2ra)
 -  All content must be legal in the US
 
 Otherwise, you’re free to write whatever you wish.

#StatusUpdates #RulesAndLegal

Máxima: 24,6ºC Mínima: -2,9ºC Media: 11,1ºC Lluvia: 4,7 mm. Mes de Marzo muy seco y templado tirando a cálido, la temperatura media mensual es la más alta de la serie(11,1ºC) y la precipitación de las mas bajas de la serie (4,7 mm.). La primavera en estos últimos años es una especie de veranillo seco. Así están las cosas.

这周过的好吗？这周过的不好，这周感觉自己在犯病，正如我现在打字的时候，胃在反酸，可是我想睡觉。

上周日在b站刷了好久的摇花手和丁真衍生歌曲，大家才艺都很强，我就不行。

新伞到了，一直在下雨，下了好久的雨，到现在天也是阴的，我想起来此刻我的毛巾搭在门后，没有挂在阳台不知道会不会又潮很久。

我把一部分衣服搭在了床上，床上用买帘子送的绳子搭了挂的地方，买了个帘子遮光用，衣柜太小了，我四季常服不过八套，还是不够放。

睡眠很不好，不知道是不是精神状态不好，越来越沉溺于熬夜的快感，睡觉前总感觉能在虚空中抓住什么，最近吃饭也不开心，不是难吃就是无从下口。

没有喜欢的人自不必说，在好几个群格格不入越来越感觉的到也不再重复，可能就是该吃药了我感觉。

PS：这周 Codebrowser 部署失败应该是很大的难受因素

Anti-Diluvian

The future’s whim comes before my foggy retina’s shore. Gushing waters end our city sent by final divine scurry crashing down age old walls of grayed brick. I fear you may call my weary mind sick, But I plead, son, listen and prepare for coming days. Soon the ocean will escape from the rims of bays. Bring sheep! Go inland to cloud-grasping hills Salt shall soak streets and fill lungs, not fish gills. Do not stay with your fortunes here. Gold is worthless drowned down there! I can’t walk, of dying age You can escape this sunk cage

Sorcerer summons the Giant

Wake slumbering giant hear my will’s arcane command Toward a soldier-sea

Defy your sessile nature And walk home again

You are star-blooded. Chosen for unstopping wrath And unquenched hunger

You armed in brine-wrought garb Were shaped by god for me

hunting drowning men Is no place for such a titan You will lead dragons

Accident Poem 2

Hobo walking down the train rail One was coming carrying mail The broadest daylight glared out all the eyes Few clouds drifted under blue Texas skies The long walk from Houston was tiring the old soul The metal husk came up from over a dusty knoll It could not stop, inertia was the judge Shortest sentence given, he didn’t budge Ears long gone, half-deaf from old age Unmoving in hit body’s cage

Misunderstood genius who appreciates fine music. #NotSatireJustRealism.

I am walking and thinking across the pavement heated by the late day’s sun The frogs hum out their sex songs to the night’s slice of the pie moon’s shine The amphibian orchestra has a repeating rhythm, broken by the ginormous sky-gonging of a gun My aimless aesthetic attention shattered by the shell’s release makes me stop sensing the sublime A panic soon consumes the last of my carelessness, and complex cowardly paranoid mind-contortion commences What if? Who is? Why did the wild clamor clang off into the spring skies with such wonderful weather My bare feet are a mistake because bare toes tamper with returning to my house hiding behind fences Impact on an intrusive nail instigates instant impaling injury against me. I call my daughter Heather. “I am sitting at 19 Nimberland avenue with a nail in my foot. There is a gungho gunman out to get me.” She does not understand that many miserable men want to murder me I rip out the nail, but the blood bursts out in thick thimbleful streams. Then I see The sedan rolls up. She’s here and screaming at my earlier shoeless glee. She is maybe with the gunman.

Ripped up shirt on foot. Bad car ride. Hospital. Infection. Antibiotics. A whole day. Gunman escaped. Heather, my daughter, says I can’t walk anymore to hear the frogs. I just sit and work on my theory. Window open, for escape and song.

昨天可能风有点大，吹的小伞龙骨断了一根。我去找淘宝卖我伞的店家，客服说 7 天包理由退换，除此以外再不提供保修。看了看别人的，也都是如此，就去拼多多随便买了个绿色的。

河南下雪了，我这里也有点冷，那天刮了风，伞坏了……给老师写了结题报告，签字寄送，看了书，机器学习还没安装环境。自己要学习的 Linux 和 Wayland 还进展很慢。

FarkasCity allows you to categorize your posts with hashtags. To do that, simply include a hashtag anywhere in your post. Here’s an example: #HowTo. That tags this post as “HowTo”, and clicking on the hashtag will bring up all the posts with the same tag. This is how I’m able to link specifically to the tutorials on this blog in the welcome emails, despite having more than just tutorials on this blog.

Tips and tricks

List of tags

You can add a list of tags in your blog’s header so that readers can easily find all the tags on your blog. To do this, create a page titled something like “Tags” that simply lists all of the hashtags you use. Then, you can pin it to your blog’s navigation so that it’s accessible from anywhere. Here’s an example.

Accessible hashtags

For people using screen readers, multi-word hashtags can be problematic because the computer doesn’t know where each word starts, so it can’t pronounce them correctly. To fix this, simply capitalize the start of each word (“#ThisIsAnExample” instead of “#thisisanexample”).

Keeping it clean

If you’re worried about hashtags disrupting your article, try putting them at the bottom. If you want, you can also add a section break to further separate them.

PS: Did you know?

Hashtags are called hashtags because they are tags made by placing a hash (#) in front of them.