On the delta past red rock island 

 Is a strange settlement 

 Way out there

 And nobody knows it's there pretty much

 And it is an interesting place

 Last I was there

 Many years ago

 Must be lonely there

 Those who tend the place

 But how do I know

 I don't know

 I suppose I feel drawn back there

 To make the boat travel

 And arrive in some kind of paradise

 Some kind of other world.












oh




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Flip the switch on 
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Please Mark what else do you know about zombies?

Male zombies often compete with other male zombies over females who don't actually exist

More zombies are male than female

Zombies can not get unzombied

Zombies can show that they have a brain, but they really don't, it is just an act.

Zombies are the most restless and nervous of all the undead since they are so hungry for brain.

Zombies often appear to suffer from malnutrition.

Zombies have a hard time with face to face conversation since it makes it harder to eat your brain.

Zombies are not into high class fashion.

If it wasn't for the institution of family zombies would be left with no brains to eat, so the idea of family is extremely important to zombies.

Zombies prefer faded colors to bright ones.

Zombies don't like looking at themselves in the mirror.

Zombies join groups as a way of accessing more brains to eat.

Zombies can not be sensitive, that is not a zombie.

More zombie news coming soon!
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Vacations

It was a day at the bay

By the boats

With my bro

The wind blew

The waves grew

And it was delightful

In a not so boring way.
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Another A+ read, dive in! The Tall Thin Man—what a striking, enigmatic figure! Spanning posts from Warmest Winds and Magic V, he’s a towering presence (literally, over seven feet!) who strides through a patchwork of surreal scenes, blending menace, charisma, and absurdity. Let’s unpack this character and see what he’s all about. Right off the bat, he’s got this commanding aura. “To you I am like a God,” he declares in that 2019 poem, bending his knee with a jolt, reaching for the sky in a “big try” for victory. He’s not just tall and thin—he’s larger-than-life, a self-proclaimed deity with a hard edge. That violin he wields like a dark sorcerer, playing haunting melodies that seduce juries, whip crowds into frenzies, or soothe bloodied drummers—it’s his signature, a tool of power and chaos. He’s no passive bystander; he’s the puppet master, grinning under lamp posts at moths or slipping through cracks in reality. Yet there’s a restlessness to him. He’s always on the move—striding across environments, heading west to saloons, or vanishing down winding stairs past alligator bridges to munch a ham sandwich (that detail kills me—it’s so mundane yet bizarre). He’s got zeppelins and giant air balloons by 2025, suggesting he’s evolving, maybe even conquering new heights—literal and metaphorical. But for all his grandeur, he’s tied to the shadows. He emerges from them, looms in alleys, or stands as an “old convict” in the rain, bitter and less kind. Is he free, or trapped in his own myth? His interactions with others hint at duality. To some, he’s a guide—telling a poker-rich wanderer to “Go West!” or gesturing toward a glowing green door, stripping you of hat and coat like a cryptic usher. To others, he’s a terror—“your worst fear,” shattering minds, competing with unnamed rivals. Magic V’s posts toy with his nature: Devil or God? The question lingers, unanswered. He’s both, maybe—savage yet delicate, playful yet brutal. That dance with the violin, making you behave foolishly, feels like a trap you can’t resist. His world’s a feverish blend of the wild and the urban. Rabbits race, snakes slither into cities, drones mix with drums, and colors turn orange and purple in a reality-warping mashup with Bill Hole and James Bond at an “Anti Trans event” (what?). It’s chaotic, almost apocalyptic, yet he thrives in it. That 2016 “smelly city” line and the 2023 blood-soaked drumming scene suggest decay and violence, but he’s unfazed—alive, victorious, always returning with a “Ha!” like some immortal trickster. What do I make of him? The Tall Thin Man’s a force—part myth, part nightmare, part showman. He’s not just tall and thin; he’s stretched across dimensions, a lanky specter of ego and mystery. I see him as a chaotic neutral—neither wholly good nor evil, but a catalyst, stirring up whatever he touches. His violin’s the key: it’s how he bends the world, from juries to mad hatters. He’s got a touch of the Pied Piper, a dash of the Devil at the crossroads, and a whole lot of swagger. Compared to Bill Hole, he’s less human, more elemental. Bill’s a quirky everyman fumbling through absurdity; the Tall Thin Man’s the absurdity itself, orchestrating it. I’d wager he’s what Bill might fear—or secretly admire.