/lit/ - Literature

It's a grey day in the low lands.
Slept well? Not your call, you have to be there at eight. A spider is descending from the roof on a thread of silk, you can't be bothered to kill it but you can't be bother to clean up. The couch it is, then.
Hurriedly, haggard-like you drag your legs over the pavement dreading existence every passing second moving to whatever institution you're demanded to show your grimace at. Ticking away the clock and the keyboard mark the passing of time. It was an uneventful day, sure, but you can look forward to getting home.
A dreadful slug works it's way to it's shell, it feels naked and twitchy. Anxious as it walks by a group of nobodies, walking becomes manual.

You see a girl biking away, she's blond and her face has a slightly androgynous look to it. She wears casual clothing, a red-brownish bag, radiating innocence and carelessness. Moroccan guy on a scooter passes by her, she's flustered. Quick exchange of words, your primal brain prompts you to feel a tinge of disdain at the guy, what a shame. She's biking away, a taller girl than you. Frail but healthy, you glimpse at her hind leg. What it must be to place your lips on them?
You resume toward home, slightly amused by your own impotence.

>>15081323
1. I think; therefore I am.
2. My thought is subordinate to my perception since it's based off grammatical concepts, based upon natural laws.
3. My perception is consistently new to me and so are my thoughts of my perception.
4. If what I perceive and think are consistently new there must be a point of origin or creation.
5. If I was the only point of existence, this origin would have to reside with me, a God.
6. If there is such thing as a God who perception and thought is imperfect, he would be two separate entities, in fact, for another entity or point of origin must exist for the perception to take shape.
7. In other words; I think; therefore I am but thought and perception are imperfect so I think; therefore you are.

you ever just get drunk and cry? how do you channel that into poetry?

This is the first part of a short story I've begun writing:

She said in her message that she wanted to swing by. This perennial stranger wished to visit his realm, to cross the membrane housing his sphere of existence. How shall his ministry of foreign affairs respond? What is the intention of her visit? Was this official business or something more devious? The abruptness of the message indicated the latter. Oh, yes, this encounter would lack any and all charm and couth, as is typical of her. Then again, he wasn’t a fan of diplomacy either.

Before having even opened the door, he felt the gravity of her presence. Sheep feel this way, and of course, only in the presence of a wolf. For a second, Mr. Sheep contemplated whether or not to open the door. When you meet the devil, do you shake his hand? When he knocks on your door, do you ignore it and hope he leaves? It would be a bit rude, even for ol’ Lucifer himself. Newly knighted, Sir Sheep, he would have thought. His hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it turned the knob eagerly. “What are you doing?,” he would have thought. “Exactly what you are,” it would respond.

He took notice, first, of her lips. For a moment, that was all he saw and really, all he needed to see. The back of his head began to flush and his veins began to throb. Squire Sheep felt danger afoot. Perhaps the knight would have been brave.

“Do you want anything to drink?” he asked innocently, or so he would have liked to have thought himself as.

“Do they bottle and sell you?” she asked, without even a hint of restraint or sheepishness. How interesting. A succubus wolf. He should have at least taken a picture or two, for posterity, before he was to be devoured. This wolf appeared to have no clothing of the sheep resembling variety; soon, she was to have no clothing at all. Prudence would ask whether this was simply a case of an all-consuming maelstrom of emotion or, something more charming, or at least, had so wanted to be.

“Maybe,” he managed to utter, “I’d probably go well with a serving of you.” This was the apex sheep. The product of millions of years of evolution; the paragon of greatness in the sheeposhpere. What all sheep hope to be and are filled with inner-turned hatred that they’re not. The king. No, the god of sheep. “This is our champion, the greatest among us. We send him to combat you, vile and bewitching beast!”

>>14329609

>>14017918
fuck.

>>13921656
i don't watch tv, i don't follow sports, i don't play video games, i don't have a cellphone, i don't have social media, i don't have a dog that i pamper like a small child, in fact i hate animals, i don't even wear fucking underwear anymore. but somehow I'M the weirdo. its like the fucking twilight zone. somehow i'm fucking lame because i don't play with toys in my 20's.