The fields are turning again, turning gold, turning golden, and the hope is rising up, rising for the sun, peering from the mountain now.

Sometimes its wise to play weak.

We are reaching for something, as to what, maybe not determined, not so fast, the dice keep rolling yet again, and fairly soon some news is arriving, the valley is stretched out before you, and a trail is forming.

Turning the harsh and boring world into a form of dream that produces drama and conflict like you have never experienced before. THIS IS FICTIONS.

Old characters I want to bring back: The green haired woman, rat, miss lips Nelson, and New Babylon.

As of now: Bill Hole, Susan, and Wonderland are leaving the fictional landscape I am creating.

Why do so many gen z people fail to see the lesson of Nazi Germany as important?

She had been lubbing me in her rich imagination.

Suddenly the trans allies vanished into the glowing cave and were never seen again.

A culture that is not wet from fiction can dry up in the rain.

This morning my weirdo alert system was going off like crazy. Any reasons?