wreath of the author •
art blockadeer •
a (leit) motif addiction •
falling down the stairs •
falling over (the stairs) •
pony •
edit toriel = pacifist •
video mess-ay •
war •
falling into (the abyss) •
wreath of the author • art blockadeer • a (leit) motif addiction • falling down the stairs • falling over (the stairs) • pony • edit toriel = pacifist • video mess-ay • war • falling into (the abyss) •
marceline “klawmachin” abadeer is your not-so cookie-cutter kinda-gal who’s really bitten the socks this time. as an author, novice artist, and composer, she’s also writing this paragraph right now (woah!).
the third person “format” is fine, but “formarcy” its a little too many people to keep up with. and formerly (once known as “merlin”) it’s a nickname that does not fit his form. dyslexia users - take note.
you’d think for a magical wizard…? id certainly hope not. he can do his own of that, and he isnt real. please remain in reality - weird al city is downey, and robert junior is not laundry detergent, and/or dryer sheets, and/or paper towels. why are these regurgitant waster vowels on my bastard webbed site? well, i refuse to keep that foot out of my mouth. ponder me, asterisk master, whomstdve priorly faced word yowls.
on the other wand, machi (“maw-key”) is a nickname that fits this website like a merlin’s birth certificate title, so that’s what you can be calling it for now and from now, on!!! now, whether or not the worst and terrifically idle thing-maker should have a website “forher” is up and down for weathered discourse, but this course is amiss and at this force a wistful recourse, so i will to whisk away its whispering corpse and whittle away for a differing source.
reading this is a way of placing the art before the horse, whilst whistling the steed to head eerie. heeding its agreement, its credence in mission increases its feasible speed achievement, as wishing to meet its reason releases its mysterious feats of infinite adhesion. with blistery feet it reaches its history, but its remark on insufficient cleats hither retreats, as its fear of remission harbors no equal, forcing its qualms be given an ear to listen. in hearkening its warning begotten of suspicion, it bequests to quell its gall, as nary a vision of purpose is in sight. by admission of its hearse, its conclusion is merely a meeting of the inefficent and accursed - the thinly veiled wails of a worthless blight’s inability to write in narrative cohesion. wordlessly despaired in its brittle reward, as described by a treasonous scribe heathen in morbid degree, it worriedly perceives its believed warden luring it beholden to something “more than,” preaching a cure to the crease it had folded. theres one thing it knows, then - the penholder is molding a pretense of tension, weaving an illusion of apparent suspense and eventful conclusion. resenting its delusions of evils redemption, it flees the heart, restores the door, and relieves itself of the denial.
you, reader, are the horse.
and horses arent real. :3
THE END…?