Hey, Don’t Cry. Free Online Database Of Japanese Folk Lore

Lillium has thoughts about his new roommate

[Characters from CTC]

Literal definition of spyware:

Also From Microsoft’s own FAQ: "Note that Recall does not perform content moderation. It will not hide information such as passwords or financial account numbers. 🤡

Random worldbuilding idea: a culture where everyone is a goth, but for perfectly sensible environmental ressons.

Wearing mainly/almost exclusively black clothing because either the dye protects them/the fabric from something in the environment, black clothes are the most convenient ones to maintain, or then a century ago black dye was extremely difficult and/or expensive to produce and only the wealthiest of society could afford it, but now a cheaper dye method has been invented and after a huge trend of Now Everybody Can Wear Black, it just stuck and nobody even remembers why all clothes are dyed black. It's just tradition.

Everyone wears demonia-style platform shoes because the climate is wet and cold, and for most of the year the ground is either muddy or covered in icy slush, so knee-high tall boots are simply the most pragmatic way to keep the rest of your clothes reasonably dry and clean.

Silver and leather jewellery is widespread because the land is rich in metal ore - while the rich can afford to buy/commission delicate silver threads, even the peasants can afford some sort of rough iron chains and studs on their wristbands. Studded leather is more sensible than having metal rings touching skin directly, due to the cold weather. Studs and chains also double as armour and weapons which technically speaking don't count as such, allowing people to circumvent any "can't openly carry weapons during peace time"-laws. Law enforcement could not confiscate someone's bling without causing public riots.

Everyone is about as pale as their natural complexion allows since the climate is cold and dark and the sun does not rise much during the winter. Cold dark winters are also the reason why the culture is so morbid in general - in the heart of the darkest months there's fuck all else to do than write poetry about the moon's silver light and the howls of wolves and the beauty of death, while polishing your iron chains until they shine like silver.

Domesticated ravens are more covenient for messenger birds than doves are, as they're hardier and can manage the climate better. Even if more modern messaging technology has been invented, people prefer sending letters by bird because it's more romantic and poetic. Sending someone a raven message poem about how you'd like to be buried in the same grave together one day is a very standard way of flirting.

Green ribbons of light danced across the darkened rural sky to the song of stringed instruments coming from my phone. The gentle melodies punctuated every sudden arch and smoothed each long stretch. Somewhere off in the distance, the sound of my friends spinning, running, and laughing on the dirt road and through the overgrown ditches. Even further off, the howl of coyotes gives warning to some unfortunate creature.

The song changed.

I lean back on my elbows in the truck box so I'm not craning my neck as much. I watch the sky light and darken as the green strips stretch and compress, appear and dissappear.

I found a place among the souls who offered me a rope, thankful for the day my journey came across the boat

I glance over at the friend next to me, their breath fogging from the cold night air as they try to take a picture of the sight in front of them. A picture can hold a thousand words, and will always far outlast our memories. The last time we watched the sky like this, we were laying on rocks beside a bridge, both being lulled to sleep by the song of a foolish man, enchanted by a forest spirit. I had never known rocks to be so comfortable until that night.

The song changed.

I went back to watching the sky, the ribbons of light greatly diminished from when I last looked. Now, they seemed to be painting a picture of a snowy tundra, briefly illuminated by pine trees, putting emphasis instead on the stars above the green light. I traced the constellations I knew, recalling the stories and different names I knew for each one; wishing I knew more of their names, shapes, and histories.

I know you'd break your neck just to see the stars

I chucked and rubbed the back of my sore neck. If nothing else, the song got that right. The two friends seemed to tire of their galavanting and ran back over to join us at the truck again, watching the stars and northern lights. The ribbons seemed to take that as their cue to take center stage, once again filling the night sky. The lines between each fold and spike grew and shrank, boldened and blurred. We watched the spectacle in awe, music having returned to the familiar, calming strings.

A flash of orange, red, and yellow streaked through the performance, there and gone in an instant. For a moment, all that could be heard was the stringed instruments. My friends began exclaiming their shock, estonishment, and excitement, one regretfully saying they didn't make a wish. I sat there, stunned, replaying the sudden flash of light - a meteor, we agreed - desperately trying to commit it to memory. I didn't want to forget it or that night. The friend next to me suggested I make a note of it on my phone, so I did.

The night drew on, and songs continued to change. Eventually, we moved the truck around so we could watch from inside the cab, as most of us did not dress warmly enough. The friend and I talked about the last time we stargazed like that and of bringing blankets next time. We talked about the people we liked and of people we wished to love.

After what might have been hours, the show did end, and the four of us left our little spot in the country so we could all sleep before work the next day.

(the original note from that night: Fucking commet while watching Northern lights with buds)

Songs referenced are (in order): Journey to Wherever We May Go by Grand Commander, The Willow Maid by Eurtan, Archer by Novo Amor. The referenced string music is from Astronomy, Vol. 1 by Sleeping at Last.

Pictures by @/alyssamoggy on Instagram

Oh if only there were a way to tell a story without first having to find a proper way and words with which to tell said story

I didn't ask if it made sense to keep going. I said I'm going to kick your twisted evil ass.

i actually get so much satisfaction out of mending and repairing my stuff. like yeah it's a chore but also it's almost a religious ritual: bending my head gritting my teeth squinting my eyes at the thing i'm fixing all the while chanting fuck you capitalism fuck you consumerism fuck you i ain't buying jack shit

Its a song, a cover of the version in stranger things. In my opinion its a very fluffy and pretty song so id say its a good thing

Btw your blog gives the same vibes as Never Ending Story by Christian Reindl

I think I heard of that, but never read it. Is it a good thing?