Place III.
Nothingness Means Everything.
Identities are ever-changing thought-voice waves
A.
One thing I did not know was that I died into nothingness, only to come back, even more connected with my missing parts. I did not turn into a gigantic ribbon like all other hardcore when Ribbon Drizzles landed on them. I was never a volunteered hardcore, but born into being one. I can still sense the inner-wills to receive and radiate affectionate feelings; I’d love to experiment on such feelings via bonding with whoever still retains a similar nature. Too bad they’ve all been ribbonised. Clearly, they knew the risk and still chose to have an underdose of Mutated Berries. — Wozreek Woaairll-Lapatin
B.
Talk about convenience, nothing is even near comparable with my self-designed Goneews mechanism. It is not used to further ink the malicious desires for control into entombment, along with used ground Koepaherrll powder from brewing the black Koepaherrll drink as the regular old-world Goneews machines do. Instead, it’s to cut my re-growable hare-like tail with sharpened graphene pentagon, so I can bury the dose of distorted love away with the same used Koepaherrll ground powder. My tail-less self, still partially bound to the ribbons surrounding my ears, is not necessarily back to the in-between-space. It is only temporarily safe from the untamed and emotional foundation under the psychological pillar within the Quantified Romanticism, because no truthful in-between-space will see the scale of my mental fluctuations. The only in-between quality of mine is how I’m so attached and yet so detached to anything within the Quantified Romanticism. — Trolley
C.
Arseaheyash-spine they call it. Cube. Extending from my back. I sit on it. Often. Only one. That is. Two more. One always on the move. The limitless postcards space. In it. The other, semi-human Kwehp. The flexible. One vertebra. Originally. They were. Mine. Willing to detach. From negativities. I get. Kwehp. You aspire. Be better. Alsroes. I don’t-get. And get. You see continuity. Differently. For you. Maybe not death. Blue jacket. Two suns. Cement toyblocks. You Alsroes. You were one. With sperm whale Gehraong. Before detaching. Post-sky merge. As Alsroes. No more. You died. Maybe to squeeze in between everything. And be better. You the high-rise. Chassis. Hanging. Melting. In the sky. My Arseaheyash-spine. Not one. But same. — Mahnrerrh Morozov-Meroonge
D.
Records of collective cataclysms are relevant exactly because they’re recurring inside each individual. The remnant-populace march on to ‘fulfil missions’ in the endless autopilot zombie mode. Emerging from the ashes of the cataclysmic events is vital, but harder still is balance. How does one avoid becoming the fight itself – going beyond the dissolution of body-mind, becoming adrift – and steer away from losing the non-cyborgised spark that lets higher cause resonate with the sensed world? What piece or aspect of impermanence can one cling to, amid a gradual loss of faith in humanity and utter self-hatred for one’s smallness, to generate a bit of purpose within the nihilistic perception storm wrapping the reality vortex? Well, but there’s no higher cause for the remnant populace. Though not as hyper of a state as the Eternal Sunset Sea, the Green Fog-permeated Counter is indeed an in-between-space continuum. Standing where I am, the Counter Owner, I’ve been forced to activate its event-re-directing feature. Before the merge with the qualities of the other worlds shall bring a comprehensive devastation on the qualities of this world. All I ever wanted is a second chance offering to the remnant-based world. For the perceptions of the populace to choose. Again. — Kolmbrepin
E
Showers pouring down from the sky. Usually mint and pink. I don’t mind getting wet; if they can manage that at all. Oh well, but it’s also my knowledge from how to ‘install’ a liquid state on them that enables me to self-equip with anti-liquid-state tactics. My eyelashes can extend for that task, or the Trolley can. The tiers. Even in a reality post-2067 where Usarev Moirld, the old world, was uprooted and shuffled. But not all is lost; quite far from that! As long as there are elements, materials, or even prototypes that can scratch beyond the surface of the fun sensor, these tiers, showers, or the Mutated Berries that crafted the tiers of these remnant populace, they are not inherently unworthy. Of lingering on. Of savouring, by my savoury standard of what lives up to fun. The Asexual Rebyata and Common Yaarknoe under the Berry Yaarknoe tier possess fun on par with the effects of the Mutated Berries. Insulated affections to go under the radar under the Ribbon Drizzles’ Ribbonising Effect. They all chose to kill affections so as not to turn into ribbons. They had a choice, and they had not. Clatter-fun. More so than the showers of brain, organs, bone mallows and dissected vertebrae. P.s. The natures of the Perfect Balance Group and the Last Group tiers are catching my attention. Their general and absolute immunity against the Berry Effects. Well, the fun sensor is calling. — Pihkuzenna
F.
Advanced users of primitivity like to think of it as an entertaining tool for gameplay – gamifying the conceptual frame known as love, one rather too rigid for them. They’d over-flood themselves even if they don’t actually have that much to give: The gentle pinching of the layers of hair wisps, palm-combing the occipital knob beneath. They then step-stone to the locking of a pair of lips and the ‘mutual swirling’ of a pair of tongues, while dopamine and oxytocin self-fill in the background as though the swelling level of a gigantic white wine pool engulfing all oceans ever have been present. Take away these overloading acts and chemical components that are collectively primitive love and the users of it are broken. Emptied chest, numb limbs. Destroyed beyond repair. There you have it, the minds based off desires, emotions, their behavioural-overwriting effects and hormones. Minds and love in servitude to desires, emotions and hormones. — Miirases
