Date: February 8th, 2018 6:35 PM Author: Disturbing abusive philosopher-king
Nah it's nuthing. Nuthing important. There was a time ... *stares down at the earth cracked and dry, scraggly weeds through broken ground, the land a mirror of this era of desolation and despair* ... there was a time when we thought he might save us. Might save us all. It's just an old story now.
Date: February 8th, 2018 6:39 PM Author: Disturbing abusive philosopher-king
Yeah it was something. You have to understand how it all started. He arrived on the bort during a turbulent time. He was different from the start, right? His posts would flow splendid electric, like word lightning on a hot summer night, okay? The timing of his participation in the greatculture was syncopated, unconnected to human measures of night and day, as if he were jacked into a different world rhythm. Hard to explain. There's a picture circulating of him somewhere in one of the deep threads that people swear shows a polished metal face, two eyes jewel-drop ruby red, a thin speaker cover where his mouth should be. I don't know how much you want to get into this.
Date: February 8th, 2018 6:46 PM Author: Disturbing abusive philosopher-king
As we proceeded down the corridor of the Shelter, we passed a door caked in dust. Against this soft accretion of time, I could make out certain capital characters within its steel frame: "P____CT L_SKO" Beneath it, etched in red-scrawl cursive: "Hope of _h_ Fre_ W_rl_"
Curiosity piqued, I tugged my father's hand, halting our forward march to the substation. Looking up toward him as he towered above me in his soot-stained coveralls, I asked in a soft voice "Papa, what's in this room?"
To this day, I've not forgotten my father's face as he met my glance. He was a stern man, raised in a Midwest of honest summers' farm field work, cold winter nights spent in scripture, tall taciturn men gathered 'round the supper table. He'd been hewn in the suffering of the First Exodus. Never one to cry or complain; he was the rock upon which our family had endured.
But that morning, my father's eyes were damp sad things--the puddled pools of a broken man. His face was screwed into the worry lines of one possessed by an old, deep hurt. "That, my boy ..." he hesitated, faltered. The swirling steam rose up around us through the grey-grated floor. Starting again, finding the words this time, "that, my boy, was something we believed in. Something that gave us hope. But that was a long time ago. And we were foolish to search for a savior. Now let's go. We'll both of us be late."
He pulled me forward, leaving the dusty door behind.
Date: February 9th, 2018 10:24 AM Author: judgmental razzle heaven
I'm amazed that "nice" femposters like CAC, 29 and JCM lasted as long as they did here before quitting. No amount of attention could be worth dealing with the wall of hate they got.