( 13 ) anon text ♧ the good lord comes arrive upon the mountain just to see what we have done

[became]

linked to save browsers, also not ic.

( ooc | same rules as the first and second go-rounds; this takes place at O'DARK THIRTY icly, may 8th. i'll do the same i did last time, spread out the comments so it's not 'be here now or suck it': all the bulletins will have gone up in a cluster icly.

this time it's more conscious, but neal will claim no knowledge again. due to the anon function no ic tracing can be done, but it's not like he didn't do this already so the people who know his work don't need to icly beat around the bush to spare MYSTERY etc.

other than that, have fun and remember: smiley is our friend.

...right? )

Comments

[jurisimpudent]

Oh, good. The prankster is back.

audio

[supfirehawk]

Figures you'd have a problem with pranksters, too.

audio

[jurisimpudent]

Am I not allowed to be annoyed?

text;

[coffeeking]

don't

believe

everything

they

tell

you

text;

[jurisimpudent]

I take it you've been wasting your time "translating" that nonsense?

text;

[goldshirt]

I wouldn't call that a waste of time.

text;

[coffeeking]

To be honest, I miss the days of puzzles and ciphers on the network. We had some clever blokes in the beginning.

text

[cobaltblue]

dude, the fuck are you on?

[ text ]

[sexting]

Oh, for fuck's sake

( text )

[tarheel]

hey, leave hendrix out of your magical mystery tour bullshit. he doesn't deserve this.

( text )

[goldshirt]

Can't knock the taste in music.

( text )

[tarheel]

i'm just telling myself that at least it wasn't all along the watchtower.

[ already been done on bsg, but chapel's... not going to say that. ]

text;

[sugarpills]

What was the point of this?

[foolproofed]

[squints







slowly takes hit from bong]

tilly ruins everything

[foolproofed]

[WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE

]

[foolproofed]

[............]

voice.

[ex_inventive578]

Ahhh, Bob Dylan. Good man. Shame about the end of the Never-Ending Tour, but you've already somewhat covered that — "There are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay." That's poetry, isn't it? Rings a bell, at any rate.

1/?? text;

[passe]

[ did someone say poetry. and no, hal doesn't give a shit about the puzzle. ]

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

[passe]

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

[passe]

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

[passe]

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

[passe]

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

[passe]

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

done yw.

[passe]

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

[blunted]

Cipl ek rfm ulv iocciieydliij.

[ look at all the rubberneckers ]