hawkgirl

hawkgirl

@rona65.bsky.social

Director/Writer/Producer Amazing Race,The Colony, 200 pound tumor, doom'd dystopia #adopted, #genx

286 followers374 following386 posts

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Replying to @rona65.bsky.social

to be continued he typed before getting up from the 57 smith corona half a bourbon on the past, the achievement of each page, a cognitive celebration. Minerva taught him that. The muse who made him puke the first time she pleasured him which was the only time he could say his funny bone had been

Time is relative, linked to planned obsolescence. Reverse transcriptase. An abiding misery. Goethe, Spinoza, Checkov + Voltaire walk into a bar. The world is still the earth if you possess the id super-id ego superego which doesn't fit? We wait in line to answer to the supranatural extraterrestrial

Time. Lost time. No one talks about found time. You wander up on a cave in the wilderness, will you be there for forty years? Or forty minutes? Does the being that is bigger than us want nothing to do with me or to make the proverbial example out of me, taking hold of my ear lobe, leading to

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What if we never wanted to be made? Wouldn't our sealed fate be the ultimate in unfair to the core? The idea of equality, a concept of freedom, any sense of free will shouldn't have been allowed to appear in our brains. How can we think of impossible outcomes? Imagine what can never come true?

By default, the opposite becomes apparent. Though its absence, it establishes a présence. The negative space turned against itself gives you irrational timing. The logic of elocution becomes senseless in Babylon Central Bibliothèque, house of Babel, everything backwards, confusing and distracting.

Time. Lost time. No one talks about found time. You wander up on a cave in the wilderness, will you be there for forty years? Or forty minutes? Does the being that is bigger than us want nothing to do with me or to make the proverbial example out of me, taking hold of my ear lobe, leading to

a place of presentation, the dock around the guillotine where the old crag would knit your name, then your fate onto the cap that wore the wind. Some would die, others fly. Freedom's lair was careless, storm's relay tether-LESS. Time with no place. Space with no name. Anti-matter. Dark denizen.

Out of control. The unraveling The destruction of, but back to the source, the core, the essence of-because ERASE is NOT ENOUGH, the dark watch cowers in caves to keep us afraid, soaked to the skin, threadbare, afraid to live, terrified of dying. This was the way man lived for centuries until...

And that, turns out, is all ye need know, and that is the honesty not truth of love, the beauty of grace, finding a way to live most in alignment with good treatment of others, fairness equivocal, love unconditional, righteousness traverses subconsciousness like two galaxies colliding spiralling

This is how it begins. A sneer. An aside. Barbara's Barbarians sleeping with Alfi Runs Amok, and in the end, Odin or Allah or the one whose name cannot be spoken (by humankind, it is the one who has no name, but is), where the source emits its life force into being. Oh how I miss communing with you!

They live, and if you disrupt the signal, they will turn you into dust. So far, that's how it goes. The translation was fed through the reluctant aldimeter man-made wonder machination for the ages, the Enoch Epoch shall be upon us, we can divert the biosphere, jam reality-scope and manipulate PSY-TV

Valuation stagnation We found being a polymath meant enduring different experience of least understood force/dimension/elemental v fundamental piece/portion at its micro-of- micro level; nano-bot special only some can see, hear drums that chant outside the tearing folds at the edges of sharealty -

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located, and geometrically scrubbed of all data, so nothing would ever be funny again. He was sad for a moment, like the kind of sadness you feel when a whole Ridley Scott scene gets removed by suits, the watchers in black bird raven fuck when's the sun supposed sunup, Russell? R. H. Leipzig didn't

Know. Unlike Socrates, he didn't know he was the holder of nothing worth anything to trade for food or a bed down, a place to lay proverbial head only this time for the first time our little lord Fauntleroy threw down the gauntlet for all the beggars, and the brothels. Locusts, pestilence, watch out

hawkgirl reposted

Replying to @kjetting.net

Som de fleste artistnavn og bandnavn fra undergrunnsmiljøet i Trondheim øst er svaret som vanlig altså "klokka halv fire på nachspiel-ordspill" 😅

...hint of sour citrus and fruity apples. The Frosted Donut high will settle in slowly, beginning with a mental boost that helps to lift the spirits and infuses your mind with an unfocused, heady sense of bliss from #allbud

hawkgirl reposted

The Sunflowers (August–September 1888) were painted to brighten Gauguin’s bedroom. The painting was both a welcome gift and a test of the expressive potential of the color yellow.

Regarding the process by which deciding a life's work, can which feels most likely to encourage discovering within its specializations drives to continue > quantum mind-f@$#: chemistry is intimidating but worthwhile; biology is do-able; state of humanity mass extinction phD in "theoncology" best bet

hawkgirl reposted

It’s bad enough that Gavin Newsom opposes California’s Prop 40. But he also supports Prop 42, a billionaire-backed poison pill that would cancel out Prop 40 entirely and make it impossible to enact future wealth taxes. It’s clear whose side he’s on. Remember this in 2028.

commondreams.orgNewsom Endorses Ballot Measure That Would Cancel Out Billionaire Tax—and Ban Future Wealth Taxes | Common Dreams"He’d rather millions of children and families lose their healthcare than ask a couple hundred billionaires to finally p

These are my thoughts spilt on occasion, sifting through each, One more to another more obfuscate breach. Ah, this temptress sups recessive traits no world renowned authenticity gauge could déplore ye emotional suspect to implore hold my hands brief leave me hanging on a bridge,

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The lightning from the new kid here he's eye bright so in love with stella I let him cry quite Literally on my shoulder Break out the deck you gave me on the train outside metropolis where you wouldn't let go of my hand I'm sorry I left earth before you I check in every day but this interim

Limbo, the place I checked if you were left behind on earth, we said we'd work our way into heaven together never stopping with the wheat made into loaves to feed our fellow human beings til not one was hungry. Then we could rest. I only get to send thunderstorms. They are my love letters.

These are my thoughts spilt on occasion, sifting through each, One more to another more obfuscate breach. Ah, this temptress sups recessive traits no world renowned authenticity gauge could déplore ye emotional suspect to implore hold my hands brief leave me hanging on a bridge,

Fog rolling in. How else could leaving go Unremitting of its closure of your heart the day I died and left you in this hard-case place, Together we were formidable Now alone Your mourn where I could be Miss me like I torrentially Cry for you. Those thunderstorms are mine. My love for you