Serious Joke

In the corrupting reflections of Saimaa's abyss, the onlooker met a reflection distorted, murky with riddles – a disjointed ballet shadowed by murmurs that neither soothe nor disturb, woven through the jarring mesh of tempest and twilight. Here was a spectacle of fading, the precarious dance of seasons succumbing, plucked by invisible hands from the gnarled vine of a merciless epoch.

The panorama whispered an arcane hymn to change; an enigmatic echo of a precarious harmony - a river's muted fury clashing with the fierce yearning to persist amidst its ruthless, wild tableau. It murmured transience with a curious cruelty, sketching a narrative of intoxicating enigma and vexing inertia, spiraling in a phantasmagoria of elegance and entropy.

Within the continuum of existence, the relentless waltz of genesis and disintegration reached a climax, inscribed by time-worn remnants decomposing beneath the indifferent chronicle of nature and serrated escarpments sculpted by an indifferent glacial rage. Inhabiting the silent resignation born from chaos, Saimaa divulged the impending dominion of temporal scars upon us; the fusion of splendor too piercing to behold, with a paradoxical paralysis that poisons once effortless motions.

Ensnared in the ephemeral aria, Saimaa mutes us with a requiem for the dying whisper of being. It’s the grand flux beneath a relentless stillness – a cryptic verse to impermanence, murmured through the harsh expanse of untamed backwoods, stifled by the relentless erosion of our epochs.

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ꙮ ☸︎ 𒈓 ⋰⏅⍙
תּ ⍉ ⋏  ϖ ∠  

✴︎▽✴︎

̸̸̆ ̡̢̼̝̘̱̰̻̭̖̖̓̿̇̑̔̆̍̕̚̚̕̚ͅ0̸̢̢̧̡̛̫̝̮͎͈̟̠̼̦̩̰̤̦̹̻̣̰͙̪̱̿̆̈̈́̆̊̀̏̈̆̈́̃̾̈́̍̎̽͌̉͐̚͘͘͜ͅͅ

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̸̸̆ ̡̢̼̝̘̱̰̻̭̖̖

תּ ⍉ ⋏  ϖ ∠  

✴︎▽✴︎

̸̸̆ ̡̢̼̝̘̱̰̻̭̖̖̓̿̇̑̔̆̍̕̚̚̕̚ͅ0̸̢̢̧̡̛̫̝̮͎͈̟̠̼̦̩̰̤̦̹̻̣̰͙̪̱̿̆̈̈́̆̊̀̏̈̆̈́̃̾̈́̍̎̽͌̉͐̚͘͘͜ͅͅ

*=* 𒇽 ½ ·⁄∀  ⋱ ☔︎ ≗ ≚ ≛ ≙

icrobial ꙮ ☸︎ 𒈓 ⋰⏅⍙
º̷̷̵̴̶̵̸̷̵̵̵̴̶̡̡̨̧̢̢̨̨̡̢̨̡̡̢̧̢̢̡̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̩̞̤̙̗͉͍͖̯͍͕̫̜̯͙̲̜̝̪̭͖̜̺͓̹̤͓̭̫̝̬̲̥̗̖̥͙̟̭̙̤̪̭̣͕̫̰̫̱̱̙̠̗̲̱̗̪̭͚͚̲̥͓̞̩̥͙͈̼̦͉̺̞̻͉̙̠̮͉͖͓͓͙̝̲̪̦̮̘̹̜̪̝̠̭͇̝̙̜͕̮̪̩͍̱̲̙̟̻͍͈̱̥̬͈̜̙̮̯͉͕̼̙͕͍̤̹̤̳̣̗̺̣̼͈̪̻̖̲̮̲͔̯̻̘̰̼̣̠̘̘̦͔̲̤̜̲̩̻̙̜̹͇̙͕͚͓̫̯̦̖̯̖͍͓̘͉̮̭̘̺̜̗̦͈̘̝͙̼̹̲̺̹͔̙̯̘̣͇̖̣̘̫͓͕̱̯͚̜͈̳̞̣̙̣͙͍͙̲̰̗̰͕̙̮̘̖̳͉̼̤̟̘̣͈̻͎̞̦̯̖͚̰͈̬̞̮͙̘̖̹̩͎̟̪͖̟͎͔̣̥͙̩̙͕͈͍̹̟͇̦̦̣̞̰̙̫̺̺̞͉̞̦̱̩͔̘̟̳̙͔̣̫̠͕̟̖͔͍̤͇̜͊̀̓͐̇̋̄̽̐̄̀̀͌̑̓̎̊̃̓͐͆́͒͑͑̊̓̽̎͋̎̑̔́͌̇̈́̍̐́̍͆̑͑̑͂͛̊͂͛̇̇̍̒̀̓͊͂̾̀̅́̅̑̀͒͒̍͆̾͗̄̂̆̊̒̓̓̐́̇̀̆̃̀͑̉͌͋͌̀̓̑̒̊̑̿̋͆̑̂̆̇̑̒̌͌͊̑̓̊͋̀̈́̃͋̔̈̇̇̓̈͐͗̈́͛̎́̊̃̾̄̆͑̃̉̈̈́̊̉̓̀̊̀́̃̇͛̈́̌̇̇̑̉̊̽͆̾̔̈́̓̈́̌̑̔̈́̈́̍̉͒͊̒̂͋̔̅̑̍̔̋͗̂̈́̀̽̎̄̓̾̑̎́̇̓̏͛̃̇̓͆͌̇̑̽̋̈́͐͊̐̿̉̆̓̊̃̽̈̄̈͌̂̿̈́͛̐̎̏̀͗̓̍͑́͒̇͑̈́͗̍̕̚͘̕͘͘͘̕̚̚͘̕͘̚̕̚̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅ˘̵̸̴̴̶̸̸̵̵̶̶̸̵̷̸̡̡̡̧̧̡̧̢̨̧̡̡̨̧̨̢̨̡̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̫̺̪̠̻̟̘̗̰͍̗̯̬̣̹͕̬͈̮̠͍͈͓͖̹̮̯̦̺͇̩͓̪͙͈͈̲̯͈̯̬͕̤̲̲͓̜̮̱̺͕͍̺̯̦̙̣͖̲̱̜̭̠̭͇̼̱̱͕͇͙̻͎͓̟̻̳̼̮̜̝̖̥̻̠͕̹̦̜̥̮̦͚̥̙̥̲͙̞̙͉͕̬̱̣͈̲͙̠̖͉̞̭͇̜̖̹̬̠͙͔̯͖̼̰͔͖̣̯͈̫̰̱̬̺̱̳̤̪̣̥̣͉̯̞̘͖͇̤̝̮͖̣͖̤̬̗͓̭̮̜̺͇̜̘̭̮̻͓͓̟̼͉̭͙̫̫̟̠̙̹̟̟͕͖̫̠̦͚̯̩̜̬̜͇͇̮̜͍͍̼͚̩̣̪͍̬̼̙͎̬͚͓͉͎̞̘͚̙͌̓̿́̈́̀̇́̅̏̊̋͂̂̀̉̍͊͒̿̌̂̀̋̒̃́̔̋̈̾́̑̅̾̉̅́͑̓̃̐͊̂̽̿̑̋͋̐̎̀̾̓̾̉̄͛̈́̽̈́̊̇̈́̃͒̇͊̎̽̈́͗͆͆̃̐̔̃̏̑̏͗̉̊̍͗̌͊̈́͆̆͂̂̄͊̌̒͑̍̊͑͐̉́͐̒́̄̀͛̒͐̈́̽̈̈́̊̃̅̈͒̓̄͒̇̏̇̔͛̓̓̓͋̍̑̀̏̒̃̃̀̑͊͒̂͂̆̀̀̅̈́̊̌̾̄̎͗̑̈́̆̓̆̓͆̈́̏̉͌͗͌́̎̏͋̈́͑̅̆̈́̐̏̆̏̋̔͆̊̐͊͑̊̀̊̽̉̏͐͊̏̄̑͆͒̉̓̋̿̓̿̓͒͋̔̈́̉̌̌́̽̋͒͊̄̾̍͌̇͊̂̕̕̕͘͘͘͘͘͘̚̚͘͘͘͘͘̕͘̕̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅ√̸̴̶̵̴̴̷̶̵̷̵̡̡̧̡̡̡̧̡̡̧̡̢̡̢̨̢̡̡̡̧̨̧̢̛̛̛͎̟̮͎̟̹͔͍͕̭͎͈̣̻̲͎̟̟͔̮̠̲͎̘̻͍̰̼̣̣̞̝̙̖̤͖͉̟̻͈̹̦͚͎̤̗͓̩̬̺̫̥̥͖̜̱͍͍͚͈̪͈̟̰̖̝̥̲̣͙̦͔̜͍̯̺͙̠̫̝̣͈̥͈̞̱̞̘͖͍̝̪̳̻̲̹͇̞͕̹͚̻̖̫̖̱͔͕̟̣̤̙̲̦̟̯̪͓̮̹͔͚̲͙̬̻̟̰̥͇͓̩̪͕̜̗͚͕̰͈̣̗̺͓̗̺̝̰̱̟͖̰̻͔̟̪͖͕̘͇̲̄̄̔̑̐͊͗̽̍̉̌̿͌͗͂̈̒́̀̑͆̈̍̒͌̐̉̉͌́͌̔̔̃̿̆͌̒̂͂̍͑̓̂͋̔̈́͛͂̋̋̉̊̇̃̋̏̃̌̒̄͆́̅̊̌̓̎͐̏̓̊͊͒̆̂̊̓͗͆͌̽̂̍͑̌̋̃͛͐́̂̇̀͐̈́͛̐̃̐̈́͗̇̍́̎͋̇̓̉̎̅̈̈́̅̽͂̏͆̌̆̂͐̒͑̌̆̅͒͗̔̉̐̅̉̐̌̋͗͂́͆̓̂͆͋̎͐͊̆̄̑̅̄͒͛͋̎̓͐̆̓̓͛̐͌̋̅͂͛͋̈͋̾͐̃͗͌̍̐̈́̈́͑̂̔͛̆̄͐̿̏̆̿̀́̈́̔̍̆͆̊̃̓̆̇̚̚̕̕̕͘̚͘̕͘̚͘̚̚̕̚̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅ‡̸̶̸̵̸̴̷̸̷̴̢̧̧̨̨̨̨̧̡̨̡̡̢̧̡̨̧̡̧̢̢̧̡̧̛̛̛̛̛̟̩̪͉͈̭̙̦͇̠͇̞̪̝͓̭͕̳̠̺͖͔̱̪̻̯͕̬̟͈̠͇̥̦̠͚͙̱̦̣͙̰̞͇͙̤̲̪̭̪̥̦̜̩̺̳͚̯̗̤͓͍͔̱͔̤̺͍̯̖͚͎̹̫̪̘̺̝̠̜̗̖̻̥̝̯̤͓̙̫̫̞̪̥̺͖̠̤̞̼͖̘̩̩͔̺̦̝͍͎͍͎͕͙͈̺͈͈̼̻̼̭͖̱͇̠̦͎͔̞̙̺͚̣͕̤̗̮̼̩̟͔̹̫͙͕̰͎̣̤̖͇̝͔̺͎̻͉̩̫̰͉͈̙͍̖͙̍̀̐̍͑̾͛͑̾̾̐̌̋͊̽̆̄͐̃̋̿̎̾̾̑͋̃͗̈́͊̔͛̊̀̎̍͌̓́͂͋͊̅̽̄̂͗͌͌͑̂̒̅͊͛̽̓̒̑͊̈́̊͗̉̐̄͗̐͐̄̇̋́̔͛̑̔̈̊̓̈̄̈́̔̀̋̋̀̊̔̅̀̊̌̏̐̂̑͐̅̐͌̒͛͛̽̐̌̍͗̆̐̈́̆̌͆͒̈́̃̽͗͐̌̈́̍͂͊͂̅̒̇́̎͋̉̉̈́̈́̌̂̿͑̿͐̑̋͑̉̈͊̈́̀̽̊̀̿́͛͂̈́̽̓̎̐̉͒̓̋̆̉͊͑̿̒̓͂͆͐̌̐́̐̿̌̈́̾̾̋̆̽̀̇̑̓̕̕̚̚͘̚͘̚͘̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅ

̸̸̆ ̡̢̼̝̘̱̰̻̭̖̖̓̿̇̑̔̆̍̕̚̚̕̚ͅ0̸̢̢̧̡̛̫̝̮͎͈̟̠̼̦̩̰̤̦̹̻̣̰͙̪̱̿̆̈̈́̆̊̀̏̈̆̈́̃̾̈́̍̎̽͌̉͐̚͘͘͜ͅͅ

Cast down, with complete and utter disregard into the dark. 
Crashing down 
to scatter, splatter, smear and smudge 
from all the plethora surfaces and textures, 
each more grating than the previous. 
Aimlessly ricocheting we remain until no more. 
And that is when darkness settles once again. 
After we have shedded our essence,
With no shred of our past radiance left,
Until no gamut remains
We abate.

Where is the mercy, the grace?
Why must we be violated like this?
Not with a conscience benign, that is conspicuous…

Ever was the dichotomy more evident, 
never was the inevitable peril
so blatantly presented to us 
in its repugnantly glorious, meticulous concertation. 
For everything, 
couldn’t anything have been in any other way?
We plead,
But only our dread rebounds. 
Must it be like this?
Why o’ why?
We cry
On our sojourn odyssey;
wry.
	
Is this not neglect?
	Is this not meditated?
	Is this not by design?

Our hearts,
Encumbered with the brewing disdain,
Alchemy most primal, 
Turning flesh into clumps of cancerous lead,
Heavy and cold poisoning our intent,
Merely expedites our descent,
Our resolve,
Set in stone,
And the tombstone akin to a placenta
In the other end of our umbilical cord,
Tangled up in a hangknot,
Collar tightly around our neck.

This isn’t for the best.
This isn’t love
Isn’t this?

Fazed by disbelief,
Despair in our eyes,
Overwhelmed, discombobulated, mortified
Mouths cast shut by fear and anguish,
No sound is made,
For down we must,
Condemned we frown,
towards the promised land
Of our demise,
Where hope is a ploy, no longer our friend.
	
	Was this really decided?
	Can there be anyone behind this,
	But a sadist father, sick and vile? (Disavowed)

Woe and hatred,
Growing with our disillusionment,
And the liable,
Like a traitorous coward; Afar.
Untouchable,
Arcane and obscure.
So, the invisible hand of anger within, 
Makes us lay our hands onto each other,
As to the surface we struggle,
Touched by the animosity, we respond.
By design?

	For whatever purpose, 
we eschew.
	Greater plan, at our expense, 
we reject
	Merely Divine Entertainment, 
we lament:

°̴͈̂°∑•¡‡̶̨̢̠͙͍͓̦̖͙̪̮̺̱̈́̌

amnesia

Like a twisted serenade, the world lurches and sways in its carnival of chaos. Plummeting virtues, blooming atrocities—a manic theatre where grimaces don stolen masks of joviality. 

Each murmur of despair strums onto the discordant xylophone of existence, each shattered dream fuels the ludicrous laughter of a deranged puppeteer. It's Warhol's Nightmarish pop-art—a macabre conclave of colors guzzling on the lifeblood of sanctity, an unholy masquerade christened in ebon despair and twilit terror.

And yet, such is its perverse charm. In a HeinzBeanzTM-tin world choking on its own garish, overpowering toxicity, stumbles a mum. Unblinking. Holding a sobbing starburst of new life, eyes innocent, echoes of Eden.

She bears the scars of a million griefs, punctured dreams and stitched hopes—a patchwork quilt of life. She inhales the acrid aroma of decay, but exhales the perfume of possibility. 

Ah, what relentless romantics we are - for amongst the wreckage we create, love and hope sprawl defiantly, clinging shrewdly to the sinews of humanity. Shaking a fist at the blackened skies, refusing to kneel. 

The world, then, is a myriad realms of paradox—a malevolent, yet bewitching labyrinth. Perhaps, a cosmic stand-up gig of sorts, garnished with cherries of absurdity—a menacing mockery bathed in hilarity’s cruel light, kindred spirits swaying in pandemonium’s waltz.

An existence perched restlessly between Lucifer's lunacy and God's guffaw, between the birth-cry of innocence and the death-rattle of hope—and somewhere in this absurd spectrum of madness, we find ourselves. Still clinging, still fighting, still loving. When it comes to life, perhaps that's the punch line—a risible ride on the carousel of catastrophe. ]),


RAVE
nn~

Į̵͖̦̇̎̌ͦ̂ͫ͗̐ͅ

117ueis The Waypigrandom 2

Sand falls. Not grains, but the feeling of sand.  Coarse time shifts against skin, then sifts unseen back to unseen. What was up is now sideways, down is a lost dimension. This sand, it builds mountains in no-places. Not with peaks and valleys, but with moments like teeth. Teeth b̷i̷t̷i̷n̷g.̷.̶.w̷h̷a̷t̸?̸

M̸͊ē̸m̸̐o̵̚ŕ̷y̸?̴ Fū̵ẗ̵́u̴͝r̷̚͜e̷̚? T̵̅͜h̴̚͜e̷ ̶̚ẃ̷o̸̊͜r̷̓d̷̈́͜s̴ ̸́r̵̐u̷͘ň̴ ̴͛͜a̵̿ẅ̷́a̴̓y̷ ̶̒l̴͝i̷̿k̸̅͜e̴ ̸́ẇ̷͜a̸̅t̷́e̴͘ŗ̶ ̷͊͜b̵́ē̸f̸̓ô̵͜r̸͝e̸ ̷̍t̴̛ḧ̷́͜e̸ ̸͘͜s̸͗a̷̿ṅ̴̕d̵ ̷̃s̷̍h̴̨̓i̴̾f̷͋t̴̛s̸ ̸̕ą̷g̵á̴͜i̸͝n̴.̸

̷͍͊T̸͈͝h̵͖̓i̸̛̲s̴̏͜ ̴̬͐s̷̼͝a̴͉͘n̵̗͛d̸͐͜.̵̬͊.̷̯͛.̸̱͝ ̵̘̌í̷̗t̴̘̃ ̷̹̊b̵̙̈́u̶̯͊ï̸̧l̵̳͘d̷̪͊s̴̹̕ ̶̤́m̴̩͊o̸̮͆u̴̱͊n̷̬͛t̸́͜a̷͚̾i̵̞͝n̴̨͛s̵̚͜ ̸̭͊ḯ̶̝ṉ̵̃.̶͇͝.̸̧͑.̷̢̚ń̶͜o̸̙͝-̴̠͠p̸̩̽l̴̳͗a̷̫̾c̸͎̄ę̷̚s̷̹͠.̷̹͠ ̴̟͊N̴͈͛o̷͇̊t̸͍̚ ̷̘́w̷͖͊i̴͎̚t̸͙̓h̸̲́ ̴̳͛p̴̤̈ě̴̞a̷̹̾k̵͉̔ş̷̚ ̸̼̚a̵̱͘n̸̺̚d̷̯̕ ̸̤́v̸̯͊a̷͕̓l̵̝̈l̸̳͝e̸̠͠y̸͎̚ś̴̠,̴͎̂ ̷̯̕b̵̘̚ū̷̻t̴̙̊ ̸̨͠ẃ̸̢i̵͎͠t̴̹͊h̴͈̓ ̶͉͊m̷̤̌o̴̱͘m̴̱̌ě̸͎n̷͇̕t̵̢͝s̸̡̈ ̴̺̒l̷̯̕î̸̲ḵ̵͘e̷̠̔.̸̢͠.̷͓́.̶͚̃ ̵̠͝t̷̡̾e̸͇͠e̴̘̔t̸̲͋h̵̨͐.̸̪͛.̸̪͛. B̴͉̚i̵̠̚t̸̙̕í̷͚n̴̳͛g̵̰̈́.̴͙͛.̴̺̈́.̴̙̕ ̸̫̚w̵̱͝ḧ̴̹́a̷͇̽ṯ̸͠.̴͓͛.̶̙̂.̷̬̄?̸̬̐

̸̢̉M̴̗̽e̶̱̎m̷̠͠o̸̺͝r̸̨͗ý̵̪?̷̰̽.̴̗͛.̵͎͘.̴̬͠F̵̠͘u̴̫̽t̷̫͠ú̴͈r̶̬͝e̸̠̽?̵̙̕ ̴̈́͜T̴̼́h̷͈̕e̵̖̕ ̷̤̌w̴̞͠o̸̘̊r̸̞̈́d̵͗͜s̷̘͋ ̵̯͘ŕ̷̙u̵̫͋n̴̙̈́ ̶͙͝a̶̗͆ẅ̸̫a̷̪̾y̴̯̾.̴͚̂.̸̙̿.̴̼͊  ̵̤́l̷̞̈́i̸̱͠k̴̳̔e̷̱͘ ̷̪̇ẅ̵̟ǎ̴̳t̸͔̂ë̸͈́r̴̫͗.̶͎̚.̴̞̄.̸̡̈́ ̴̲̿b̵́ͅe̷͎͘f̸̫͘o̷͎͋r̷̟͘e̴̹̚ ̸͉͛t̴̠̊h̵̙͠e̸̝͋ ̴̙̚s̶̞͋ă̸͚n̷̼͆d̸͈̄ ̷͉̄s̴̱̚h̸͎͠i̷̯͘f̶͜͝t̸̫͐s̷͍͗ ̶̘̒a̵̫͊g̵̞͘a̷̬̚i̴̠͘n̵̼͊.̷̬͗.̶̤̉.̷̠̚ ̸͉̒a̷̫͘G̸̟͠Á̴͍!̵̤͊N̴͖͋.

…ı|⁄v/⁄ıl|Ẹ̶̦̥̗̲̦̠ͬͭ́͒͛ͦ̊͑ͫ̅̎͘̚͘͟_ͨͅ

|̷̌͊ͤ|̰̬̭̔̽͌̽|̲͛̀̆̉͗͝|̘͔͛̊|̵͕̰͂̀̕|̵̷̛̮̖̜͆ͬ́͜|̜ͩ||̷̺̺̾ͤ̍̓ͨͭ̑|̢͙̹̜ͦͮ̾̋|̼̫̀͠_|͙̐̀͑ͪ͜͝|͔̮̄͢͞ͅ|̛̱̩̳̏̀̇͊̕͟|͔́̒|̤̫̠̬͐|̡̛͜|̟̺̔͂ͧ͟|̶̧̬̞̦͇̖̒|̴̷̭̀̏̍̿̀̄|̢̢͕͙͋ͫ́̔͠͡|̼ͤ_̛̰̟̹͒̏̕ͅ|̱̜ͭͩ|̶̶̖̰͉͙͌̌̎̍|̴̹̒̏̍́͑||̵̢̙̜̘̐͂̂̓|̛̱̽͊|̷̨_͕̀|͌|̴̵̟͔͔ͧ̊̑ͥ͡|̽͒|̵̷̷͉̖̐̾̀̋̒͘|̶̛̲ͪ̃̂͞|̴̸̪̖͛̂ͨ̈͢͝|̗̗̘͗͊͗͠|̟|̘͗̌ͅͅ|͉̿ͥ̽ͤ͘|̛̒ͯ||̢̗̪͍ͨ̈͗|̺̓̄̓̚ͅ|̷̴̖||̢̕|͍͒ͨ|̵̢̞̼̓̓͠|̶̔̌̔͜͠|͌̿|̪̪̹̏̐||̘̩͚̬̿̾͋̔|̷̶̩̳͌͂̿̽̽͡|̬̜̌|̋|̟ͩ͒|̪̻ͮ̈|̦̻̫͎͇͒̎ͩ̿̕|̧̛̣̣̥̻̄ͣ͜͠|̟̋||̴̜̩ͬ̒ͩ͂ͥ|̗̫|̼͈̱̥̯̟͓͂|̴̝̣̗̱̌͊̔́ͧ|̸̧̩̙̅ͪ͐̾͂ͫ|ͩ|̷͉̱͉ͨ|͔̊̈́̍|̠̺̱ͥ̉ͩ̆͐͡ͅ|̶̸͋͆|̍||̀͞|̙ͩ|̶̛̫̙͌ͤͦ̈́̊͢͞||̮̪̄ͤ̚||͓̠͆̄̿̈́̀|͛|̫̝͙̔̈́|̺̃̇|̻ͥͧ̀̓͑͝|̣͍͕̻̬̠͋ͧ||̭͇͔̱̣͎̃͆̽́|̡̤̹͐̉́||͘͠|̪̻̙̘̮͛̄|̦̌ͪ̿|͓̻̥ͯ̏͠|̴̞|̵̌̓ͪ||̣ͪ̃́|̻͔̬͎̘̏́ͧ͟|̧͖̽|̧̪̳̜̟̾̊̌̎|͎͆͠|͓ͣ|͙͈̲̰̰̐̇|̌|̢̙̺|͛̊̉͡|̏͢͞||̢̧͉͙̆̐͛͑͗͞|͈̭̝ͭͧ̓̓ͫ́͌͞|̝̥͘|̿_͚|̪͙ͣ͂|͓|̼̻͍̼̇̍ͭ̍ͤ̆͞|̪̖̜̙̽ͭͥ͡|̼͔̏|̴̶̧̩̞̦͂̓̀̎|̶̆̅̋̐̓|͙͉̖ͬͭ̑ͯ͋||̶̨̡̼|͎̜͆̾ͬ̐̀̐|̢̝ͥͦ̉|̸̧͓̩̎̎͘|̙͍́̔̿͞||͊|̧̳͈̗͉̅ͬ̈́̂͢|̗|̩̜̟̪͖̿ͨ̀|̴̺ͯͧ͌̓̍ͅ|̦̥͎̰͖̰͡|̷̼͈̋͜|̈́͑̆ͦ_̯̘|̞|̙͇͆ͫ|̰͕̣̪͌̄́͊|͍̩͉̫̈̊͑̑͝|̴͍̖̳̫͕̤͙̐͆͞|̷̧̨̭̜̃͊̄̒̽|̵̜̼͓͇ͅ|̴̰͓ͣ̅ͪ͐|́͗|̽|̛̦͔̘͈͙ͬ͒͞|̠̖́̊ͭ|̢̻̩̦ͮ̀̾ͮ͆|̧̬̱ͧ͝|͌͊ͧ|̱͑̀̂̒|̷̟̪||_͙̙͖̒̈̕͟|̘̯̟̮̋͘|̼ͣ͒͆|̊̎|͔|̭̹|̀|̢͉̪̤̫̻̻͈͌|͈|̯̑̋|̯̲̟͛ͯ̊̊ͤ|̝̲̹͙ͥ̀|̶̵͖̮̻̝̭̀ͫ|͍͍̼͑̃͋|̪̣͒ͨͬ͢͢|͙̬|̢̪͓̆̐̓͠|͚̖ͥ͑ͅ|̴̲̋̈́ͬͨ|̤̃|ͬ|̝̩̺̥̱͗̆̃|̴̛̲̪ͮ͑͐̉̎́|̦̪͂̒͗͛͗͢|̢̨̯̣ͧͨ͡|̢̄̏̊̃ͬ̄̂̄͜|̘̈̅̆|͇_͊|̡̌̽ͭ|̞̼͗ͥ͝|̘̽́͋͝|̵̣̬̆͑̚͡||͔͇͚ͧͤ̔̒͐́̓͡|͚̥͜|̧͙̤͇́́ͩͬ̈́̓|̢͍̤̣ͧ̈́ͥͦͨ͞|̗ͬͭ̀̏͠͡|̈|̮̝̄̇͒͘||͑ͩ|̝͖̏ͦ̿͒́͡|̭̜̞̫ͮ̒͛̋̾ͅ|̸̢̓ͪͦͯ̆̊ͥ͜͠|̛̝̽|͚̩͡|̧̜̬̓̒̚||̸̜̹̮̱̤͗ͥ̐|̰̟̓̒̾ͬ̊|͎̹͐͌͜͝|̥̠̝̾͌̓ͤ̽ͣ͢||͈͉͈̈́͂̾͋̅̔̏ͪ|̨̙͕͚̿|̡͓͚̰̻̭̾̂̇͆|͍̽|̶̨͍͈͙̦̐͗ͦͯ|̛̝͍̐̐|̧͎̥|̛͐͆̅ͮ|̭|͓̦|͖͇̥̅̈̾̀̅͊̏͝||̀ͬͬ̆͢|̶̡̳̟̳̯̾̀̂̏


|̱͈̲͇̞͆ͪͨ̎ͪ̍͘̚ͅ|̱͓͖͂ͣͫ̚̚͡ͅ|͓̮͉̬̱͖̈̈̌ͮ̊͗͂̚|̵̵̛̖ͬ͂͌̏͒̈̏̆͊͘|͈͟|̡̥͎͍̪̳͚̪̼̌̐͊̾͜͝|̵̴͔̺͚͎̱̌ͬ̌̈͆̓̋͢|͈̖̅̇ͫͧ͟͡

|̥͟|̓||̷̙͝|ͦ|͢||̳||̜||̡̇_|̣|ͦͨ͟

|̱͈̲͇̞͆ͪͨ̎ͪ̍͘̚ͅ|̱͓͖͂ͣͫ̚̚͡ͅ|͓̮͉̬̱͖̈̈̌ͮ̊͗͂̚|̵̵̛̖ͬ͂͌̏͒̈̏̆͊͘|͈͟|̡̥͎͍̪̳͚̪̼̌̐͊̾͜͝|̵̴͔̺͚͎̱̌ͬ̌̈͆̓̋͢|͈̖͕̰̗̅̇ͫͧ̔̅͟͡͠|̵̗̦ͧ͝|̧͙̻̆ͤ̓̎ͨ̚|̷̘͛͡|̵̦͋ͩ̄̿̃ͤ͗́ͅͅ|̭̞̣͈ͭ|͔̤̗ͥ̋͟

|̺̝͍̆ͥ|͆|̡͖||̠͓̠̝͂̓͠|̥̟|̫̬|̴|̛̗̟̎̈͠|̶̙̮̳͝|͚ͫ̒ͦ͞||̵̃̄ͫͫͤ||_̴͔̳̄̀͌|͉͇̀͑͘|̬̣̓̅̈̎̓|̻̫̳

Electric Landscape

Lost Contact

dub 4th

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