5 Capet 126: the fierce Capt. Rohan was down to but eight crewmembers left starving, thirsting, baking alive, and as they began to sing their favourite shanties, a horrid storm began to brew. however, they quit singing not. high and low, they sang "The Boy on the Boulder", to and fro, they sang "The World Is Gone". however, before the third shanty could even begin, the storm devoured the crew entirely, and some hideous antediluvian monster emerged from out the center of the eye of that damned storm. the men, frozen in place by trepidation, could sing no more, merely watching in bewildered fear as they evaporated, stolen into the ethos of time, consumed by the heart of the sea.

Honey Boy

Sailors What Don't Know They're Dead

in all of the ages of all of the planet, I have always been. in my mind, left blanketed in visions of unbecoming, I feel I have always existed. in different forms, I have seen the world, and there is no denying what I believe. there is no resisting the objective reality of subjectivity. even if only in my mind... I am a colossus of profound emptiness, I am the heart of ten-thousand milieux, I am within all the stars and underneath every river.

Song of Myself

in the not so distant future, humanity is left on the frozen husk of a dead planet what once held life so vibrant and green. the effects of manmade cataclysm caused Mother Gaia herself to overcorrect and destroy her flesh and blood. in this forthcoming age, man sees not the Sun, but the Moon, in varying shades of brightness, at various stages of her ever-shifting identity. we will learn to love the snow, for the snow is all there will be, and we will learn to love Death, for he will be our guide, our saviour, the gentle liege of our hearts.

Land of Night & Snow

[to Artur Kordas, composer of the Darkwood OST]

after a night just as terrifying as all the nights before it, the Stranger emerges that morning to find a wedding invitation left outside the door of their ramshackle home. so for the rest of that day, the Stranger travels in search of said Wedding, until eventually finding himself lost in a dying field, surrounded by a sea of wilting corn. heading southwards for some time through the field, the Stranger finally comes upon the grand hall of the Wedding, narrowly bypassing a vicious hound what guards the front entrance. in the kitchen, the Groom rhythmically slams his head against the rotted banquet table. in the backyard, the Bride madly dances in a mist-smothered copse. suddenly, there is a noise, and the Stranger is finds he is locked inside the room. something begins to pound violently against the door, and from the other side, a growling chorus calls out: “WE HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU!”

The Dark Wood Marriage

there are faces. faces in the trees. faces in the leaves. there are vultures. faces. vultures' faces. there are in the tree there. there are. in the tree there are vultures. leaves. faces. vultures in the faces. leaves in the trees. leaves. leaves' faces. vultures. leaves. faces. leaves. in the trees. in the trees. faces in the trees. in the vultures there are leaves. in the faces there are faces. leaves there. leave there. leave. leave. leave. leave. leave.

The Audition

swamps are actually just one of several different distinct types of wetland. swamps, in particular, are permanently saturated by water and dominated by trees. marshes are essentially grasslands what are continually flooded, though unlike swamps, do not necessarily have to remain permanently flooded. bogs have acidic waters and sphagnum floors. fens are like bogs, though their waters are less acidic, so they may have a greater biodiversity in terms of flora. in conclusion, there are a great variety of wetlands in the world, and I have bodies buried in several of them.

Swamp Lady

murder ballads are a genre that aren't nearly as popular as they should be, and stalker ballads are a genre that are only different from murder ballads insofar as there aren't any explicit murders what take place. also, stalker ballads are a fictitious genre what don't exist. you have been lied to, and you have been fooled.

Love, Love

the thoughts of anyone are uncontrollable, by both those who hold their own thoughts, and by those who seek to hold another's thoughts. for every idea conjured on purpose, ten-thousand of its brethren have spawned of their own accord. because of this, no one is beholden to their thoughts. no one is the sum of the ideas in their head. ideas can be trued into reality, or they can be cast into the Sea of Forgetfulness.

Same Evil

[originally by William Shakespeare, from the play Twelfth Night]

Sir Belch, Sir Andrew, and Feste the Clown sit, drinking, relaxing, enjoying their night. Feste the Clown asks his companions, "Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?" as if to imply that the two concepts are entirely incompatible. his companions agree to hear a song of love, with Sir Andrew commenting that he cares not for a good life. Feste the Clown then begins his song, singing of a man who implores his unrequited love to quit her foolish efforts in finding a man better than he, for he is there now, and her preferred love is not there now, and potentially never may be, so why shouldn't she settle for he who is there now and truly; as they say, love is not worth waiting for, because it barely even exists.

O Mistress Mine

my band is invisible, I live in a castle, and yes, I am a millionbillion years old, so stop asking. queer is my name, queer is my game.

Liru Kant

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