Message from Writer

Enderdragon in my direction
Many XP it's such a blessing, yeah
Use all the XP to enchant my armor, yeah
Oh ohh, I...
Try to sleep on the darkest day,
but the mobs are in the way
Gotta kill them so I can go to bed... (bed)
This armor's really comfy when I put it on
Change it to peaceful so I'm not killed when I spawn
I see a village that is near
The only sound I wanna hear:
are the villagers when I trade them some gear
(Smelt) Smelt the iron so I can get some metal
Make an Iron Pickaxe to mine the rare ores
You know that I gotta mine all these diamonds
Oh yeh (Yeah)
Need alot of food on this hard adventure
Should I cook the pig or the cow?
I'm not sure
Maybe I should make a cake for my hunger


August 21, 2018


"I am pretty, I am not pretty, I am pretty, I am not pretty..."

A small child sits atop a decaying rooftop, pale limestone blemished by patches of soot. A dress hangs over her, fabric dangling over the abyss. Her legs kick absent-minded over the edge. The child continued with her monotone voice, a small red flower in her hands she plucks a petal from it. Casting it off into the abyss.

"I am pretty, I am not pretty..."

The red petal floats down. It's stark red contrasting with the soot and grime coated walls. Windows, devoid of light, are cracked and warped. Glass shards scattered upon dying flower pots. A small noise is suddenly audible, an unsteady droning from below. The petal hits a sudden downdraft and is sent plummeting down in a spiral.

The shattered windows continue, plant pots now devoid of life. The pungent smell of fumes plagues the air, it's smog growing thicker and thicker. A spider web of cracks reaches out from the windows, going past the windowsill to the limestone walls. The droning gets even louder, the shouting of men now distinctive above footsteps and rumbling machines. As the petal continues on it's downwards path the black cloud finally parts.

The roars of machinery blasts through the crowded streets. Men, women and children dressed in bleak clothing walk forward, heads down to the cobblestone path. A man in a green coat shouts into a megaphone, men and machines carrying out his demands. Masks are stamped with a singular word and given to each person as they pass. 
As they are given the masks they put them on. The word becomes their identity, their ideals, them. Nothing left of them as they were before, as they are ugly, and ugly people deserve no such identity...

The petal lands delicately on the ground, its red stark against the grey. Other specks of colour litter the ground. 
Thousands of petals from hundreds of different flowers.

"I am pretty, I am not pretty, I am pretty, I am not-"
The last petal is plucked from the flower.
The child stares at the remains of the flower, twirling the stem between her fingers.
Solemnly, she places the flower next her, grabbing another from a bouquet.

"I am pretty, I am not pretty..."


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