From Mammals Of Britain & Europe, Illustrated By Richard Orr.

I cannot put into mortal words how fucking badly I want that swedish goat to burn. We live in a modern surveillance hellscape and not only is big brother watching you but he’s monitoring your purchase habits so he can sell you a smart refrigerator that will spy on you for the cia. the full weight of modern technology can be rallied to protect that straw monument to human hubris and I want us to burn it anyway. I want the might of modern society to crumple in the face of a drunk swede with a zippo lighter. we can do it just take my hand

deeper | invisible paths

20/09/26-79

Art by ОMA (Olga Morozova)

“Oh, what a sweet child,” cooed the god/goddess as they picked the crying child off of the floor. They cradled them in their arms, smiling softly. “How could anybody be so cruel to such an adorable little thing?”

The child began to stop sniffling as they looked up at the deity. There wasn’t any attention paid to the bodies of their attackers strewn about the room.

“Come now,” the deity said as they turned to leave. “You will be with me from now on.”

Agony by Vetarmora

I am learning to imagine the future:

My sycamore tree began life in the gravel at the edge of a parking lot. If trees can feel pain, that is a painful, unlucky death. I carefully dug it up and put it in a pot I made out of a disposable cup.

Hello small one. This world may be cruel, but I will not be.

I decided to take care of it, not expecting it to survive, and when my sycamore tree unfurled one tiny leaf and then another, it chiseled a tiny foothold in my terrified brain, the kind of brain that doesn't remember a world before the atomic bomb and before 9/11.

I googled the lifespans of trees. My neurons had to stretch and expand to accommodate what I learned: My sycamore tree may live five hundred years. It's hard to think something so big. In twenty years, my baby sycamore tree will be three stories tall, and the home of many creatures. In five years, my sycamore tree will be taller than I am. In one year, it will be summer.

There's this concept called sense of foreshortened future where people who have lived through trauma can't conceptualize a future for themselves because deep down they don't expect to survive, When I look forward, all I see is fire and death, melting ice and burning sky. We were raised Evangelical. All we see is Judgment Day, except there is no heaven.

But now there is a tiny gap in the wall, a crack in the door of my cell

and on the other side, I see a tree

There is, in the future, a great old sycamore tree, full of clean winds and the stir of a thousand wings. A hundred years from now. Fifty years from now. There will be forests in that world. There will be a world.

It takes courage, but we have to imagine it.

Most tree species can live in excess of three or four hundred years. I think I'm learning something. I think there are ancient voices saying hello small one, touch the dirt and the leaves, for now you are part of something that cannot die

in 2030 I will be thirty years old and the world will not have ended and there will still be hummingbirds, and we will have photos of the stars more beautiful than we can now imagine.

I planted an Eastern Redcedar; they may live nine hundred years. There will be nine hundred years. The people in that time will remember us. Maybe we will meet the aliens (hi aliens!).

I will blow out the candles on many birthday cakes in a world where there are wolves in dark forests far from home. I am learning to imagine the future. I learned recently that elk were reintroduced to the Appalachian Mountains after over a hundred years of extirpation, and that they are expanding their range.

That tiny crack I can see through now opens a tiny bit more:

Maybe elk will pass through my hometown, maybe there will be a forest where the pasture is on the high hill that I can see from my home

say it, say it, say it: ten years, thirty years, a hundred years from now

I am learning to imagine the future. There is a crack in the wall of this prison, of this machine, of this darkness, and through it, I see a tree.

I wrote the word 'soup' last night, which was about the 15 word I wrote. That was as far as I got before I went on a search of what food peasants ate in medieval times, and fell asleep. Writing is truly bizarre.

The Eldest Messenger - by Piotr Kozioł