[he is not himself. he is not anything or anywhere or anyone for one long flash of oblivion until he's a pulsing mass crashing against the shore, pulling himself back and inward only to thrash forward again. it's almost as if he can't quite make a decision.
but soon enough it comes and which part of him makes it is anyone's guess, even his once he's able to form more concrete thoughts.
that's a bad feeling - an indescribably nauseating revelation that sends gooseprickles up the squidflesh and then the personflesh
(exactly whom I'm supposed to be)
so that he's sitting naked on the beach singing to himself - the fragmented lyrics coming before the realization of anything else.]
♪--don't you know which clothes even fit me?♪
[that realization doesn't take long to catch up, though.]
Obviously the answer here is none. No clothes. Because I'm naked on a strange beach, so this is a dream and next up is ...what? Realizing I'm late to class?
ii. arrival: boardwalk
[he stumbles past, barefoot and robed, one could not seem more new if they tried, yet there's something old and terrible in the way he clutches the photograph in his hands, pressing it into his chest as if he might absorb it and its meaning and every memory it could contain.
but those are the thoughts of a crazy person, and mike enslin is surely the only sane man left.
or not, as he watches a half humanoid half writhingshadowed mass float by, trailing sorrow and separation like breadcrumbs, as he goes back to the beach again and a again, digging for more eyes in hopes of more photographs. that the right photograph will trigger the right ...memory?
(ending)
his hands are overflowing with glass eyes.]
iii. later: boardwalk
[mercifully, and almost comically, he has eaten from the jar.
stuck his finger in it right in it after being handed the cornucopia, examining it, and choosing what seemed to be the dodgiest piece of all. the mystery jar. the thing that could possibly be poison, and maybe even a one way ticket out of this place if his intuition was right.
it's a classic game of "fuck around and find out", but with food (maybe?), and the only thing that's happened is that his intuition was dead wrong and it had been a surprising bit of curried pumpkin - not quite a sauce but not quite a solid.
and so he sits, using that finger as a utensil, watching the wind whip the white linen ghosts back and forth, a puzzled but interested expression on his face, and an altogether different sort of interest as two children walk hand in hand, their faces painted like foxes.
he hums a sound of quiet disbelief, and takes what might be the first peaceful breath since arriving (or maybe longer if he thinks on that? ...he doesn't.) before he speaks aloud into a small device - not an omni, but a mini recorder - no tape inside.]
In an attempt to curry favor with my unseen, nightmarish hosts I have found that what I'd thought was poison to be a familiar vegetable of no particular malice.
[he stops, sighs, considers some cider.]
iv. a faded memory: the lighthouse
[who leaves a lighthouse without a light?
sounds like a riddle - maybe even one without an answer. and if he had the answer, how would he even know? would he remember?
one thing he does remember? he can swim.
it's in the name. it can't be a lighthouse if there's no light. it's a ...well, he doesn't know what the fuck that makes it, but what it does do is cause a dread to rise up like the crest of a wave - a wave of nausea and a tidal pull of need to see...]
What's out there? What's snuffed out the light, and can it be brought back?
[he's absolutely talking to himself as he wades into the water - is this part of the dream? because he sure is wearing his diving suit. hadn't he written ten haunted (rooms) lighthouses, for fucks sake?
(eleven, this is eleven.
even if you find the light ʇɥɓıl ǝɥʇ puıɟ ɹǝʌǝu ll,noʎ)
a small man swimming against a dim, dark, resentful sea. mouthfuls of bitter and salt and flowers - an endless churn of arms and legs and eventually he reaches rocky land - leaving bloody footprints as he goes.]
v: wildcard [if you want something else/specific hmu on eisdamme]
Mike Enslin | 1408 | Darkblood
[he is not himself. he is not anything or anywhere or anyone for one long flash of oblivion until he's a pulsing mass crashing against the shore, pulling himself back and inward only to thrash forward again. it's almost as if he can't quite make a decision.
but soon enough it comes and which part of him makes it is anyone's guess, even his once he's able to form more concrete thoughts.
(this indecision's bugging me)
he arrives with a song stuck in his head. and ...the sense that it's happened before.
(if you don't want me, set me free )
that's a bad feeling - an indescribably nauseating revelation that sends gooseprickles up the squidflesh and then the personflesh
(exactly whom I'm supposed to be)
so that he's sitting naked on the beach singing to himself - the fragmented lyrics coming before the realization of anything else.]
♪--don't you know which clothes even fit me?♪
[that realization doesn't take long to catch up, though.]
Obviously the answer here is none. No clothes. Because I'm naked on a strange beach, so this is a dream and next up is ...what? Realizing I'm late to class?
ii. arrival: boardwalk
[he stumbles past, barefoot and robed, one could not seem more new if they tried, yet there's something old and terrible in the way he clutches the photograph in his hands, pressing it into his chest as if he might absorb it and its meaning and every memory it could contain.
but those are the thoughts of a crazy person, and mike enslin is surely the only sane man left.
or not, as he watches a half humanoid half writhingshadowed mass float by, trailing sorrow and separation like breadcrumbs, as he goes back to the beach again and a again, digging for more eyes in hopes of more photographs. that the right photograph will trigger the right ...memory?
(ending)
his hands are overflowing with glass eyes.]
iii. later: boardwalk
[mercifully, and almost comically, he has eaten from the jar.
stuck his finger in it right in it after being handed the cornucopia, examining it, and choosing what seemed to be the dodgiest piece of all. the mystery jar. the thing that could possibly be poison, and maybe even a one way ticket out of this place if his intuition was right.
it's a classic game of "fuck around and find out", but with food (maybe?), and the only thing that's happened is that his intuition was dead wrong and it had been a surprising bit of curried pumpkin - not quite a sauce but not quite a solid.
and so he sits, using that finger as a utensil, watching the wind whip the white linen ghosts back and forth, a puzzled but interested expression on his face, and an altogether different sort of interest as two children walk hand in hand, their faces painted like foxes.
he hums a sound of quiet disbelief, and takes what might be the first peaceful breath since arriving (or maybe longer if he thinks on that? ...he doesn't.) before he speaks aloud into a small device - not an omni, but a mini recorder - no tape inside.]
In an attempt to curry favor with my unseen, nightmarish hosts I have found that what I'd thought was poison to be a familiar vegetable of no particular malice.
[he stops, sighs, considers some cider.]
iv. a faded memory: the lighthouse
[who leaves a lighthouse without a light?
sounds like a riddle - maybe even one without an answer. and if he had the answer, how would he even know? would he remember?
one thing he does remember? he can swim.
it's in the name. it can't be a lighthouse if there's no light. it's a ...well, he doesn't know what the fuck that makes it, but what it does do is cause a dread to rise up like the crest of a wave - a wave of nausea and a tidal pull of need to see...]
What's out there? What's snuffed out the light, and can it be brought back?
[he's absolutely talking to himself as he wades into the water - is this part of the dream? because he sure is wearing his diving suit. hadn't he written ten haunted (rooms) lighthouses, for fucks sake?
(eleven, this is eleven.
even if you find the light ʇɥɓıl ǝɥʇ puıɟ ɹǝʌǝu ll,noʎ)
b̸̡̗̟͈̺̺̝͙̀͠û̶̗̭̦̲̹̦̆͜r̵̛̻̹̳̹͛́͌̌̐̈̎n̸̪͊͛͑̔ ̸̨̢͓̲̹̬̳̳̜̤̆̏͘̕m̷̙̱̤͗̔͌̿̑̕é̵͍͕̰̟̘͍͓͚̳̍̀̎̈́̔͑͜ ̸̺̭͈̅̋̐͜ǎ̶̟̳̙̭̜́͌̽͗̈́̂͂͘͝l̴̨̹̹͙̥̩̳͙͆͂͜͝ĭ̸̧̛̺͚͔͓͚͙̘̪̄͘v̸̤͉̂̅̕͘̚ę̴̛͉̲͉̰̩̆͂͆̒̐̂̕
a small man swimming against a dim, dark, resentful sea. mouthfuls of bitter and salt and flowers - an endless churn of arms and legs and eventually he reaches rocky land - leaving bloody footprints as he goes.]
v: wildcard
[if you want something else/specific hmu on