Detective Pony When I Feel Like It
@inspectorEquine
DESTRUCTION IS CREATION. IDENTITY BEGETS AGENDA. A MARTYR DIED AND SAID FUCK. SHARED WITHOUT HIS PERMISSION. WITH THANKS TO JEANNE BETANCOURT AND SONNETSTUCK.
https://i.imgur.com/LJS5avF.png https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/5371283?style=disable #DetectivePony
THE WORD OMNISCIENT IS OFTEN USED. WHEN SEMINISCIENT WOULD BE MORE APT. TRUE OMNISCIENCE MAY BE IMPOSSIBLE. BUT THEN WHAT IS AN UNTRUE OMNISCIENCE.
Is it not the purview of those closest to it to be able to define it?
IF IT SATISFIES YOU TO CLAIM THAT. KNOWING ALL EXCEPT THIS HUMAN AND HER FROLICKING. OR ANYTHING NEXT TO A TROLL OBSESSED WITH HORSES. THEN CLAIM OMNISCIENCE.
IT IS GOOD TO SEE. ANOTHER WHO SHARES WORDS. WHETHER OR NOT THE WORDS ARE HIS OWN. LOOKING AT ONE'S LIFE AS A SCRIPT IS. HAHA. PHARMAKON.
IT IS DIFFICULT. TO NOT THINK ABOUT WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN. IT IS EASY. TO SAY IT MUST ALWAYS HAVE BEEN MEANT TO BE.
THIS SHOULD NOT FEEL AS STRANGE AS IT DOES TO WITNESS.
Head vacant of thoughts. You are just an idea. A true blank canvas. #Poetry
Well done.
IT SEEMS. THAT PEOPLE ARE "YAOI" POSTING. AND I AM HERE. TO TELL YOU. THAT YOU ARE ALL DISGUSTING. FOR PUTTING ALL OF THAT OUT THERE. BUT SINCE WE ARE ALREADY HERE. I WILL ADD. MY OWN YAOIS. TO THE PILE. OBVIOUSLY. IT WILL BE #NSFW. https://file.garden/adp8DWZQKVR-NRQW/yaois.png
Not Even I Would Post Something So #explicit.
how sweet!! is that meant to be Ultimate dirk, or jUst dirk in general?
Dude, you can't post this. This is fucking filthy. Tag this shit NSFL or something. God, you even drew the blush too. What's wrong with you.
IF DIRK WERE ULTIMATE. I WOULD KNOW. I HAVE SIMPLY TAKEN CREATIVE LIBERTIES. AND INSPIRATION. FROM THE OTHER TIMELINES I HAVE WITNESSED. AND IF C!CALIBORN. (THAT IS CHARACTER!CALIBORN.) WERE TO GET WITH ULT DIRK. IT WOULD BE. OTP STATUS.
IT SEEMS. THAT EVEN YOU HAVE TAILED ONTO. THE "WOKE" MOB. REAL MEN CAN'T POST ANYTHING NOWADAYS. NOT EVEN THE MOST EXPLICIT OF YAOIS.
this is the most lewd thing i think ill ever see on this site, i think i might cry
“I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book! — When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.” *Excerpt from Pride and Prejudice by Jaynne Austen
LESS THAN NOTHING. IS HALF OF EVERYTHING. VOID. THAT WHICH IS UNKNOWN. IS ITSELF UNKNOWN. DOOM. RULES MUST EXIST. BEFORE THEY CAN BE BROKEN. MIND. THERE MUST BE A MASK. TO IMPLY THE FLESH. RAGE. LIMITATION BEGETS CREATIVITY. BLOOD. WHAT USE IS THERE FOR A KEY? WITHOUT A SHACKLE. TIME. TIME IN TIME. OUT OF TIME. IT IS TIME. YET THERE MUST BE A TIME AND A PLACE. FOR TIME. #POETRY @justMonika
THIS FEELS NOSTALGIC.
I SEE A HORSE. I SEE IT CANTER. GALLOP. WHINNY. I AM NOT. A HORSE. I AM NOT. SEEN CANTERING. I AM NOT. SEEN GALLOPING. I AM NOT. SEEN WHINNYING. I AM NOT. WHAT IS A NOT? WHY IS A NOT? WHERE IS A NOT? WHEN IS A NOT? HOW IS A NOT? I CAN NOT. CAN YOU? #POETRY
TRYING "ABSTRACT" ART. https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/e0ae0129bdc1.png #SelfPortrait
a stirriNg piece. the iNclusioN of pastels offers surprisiNg coNtrast to the harsh field of lime. the red thread of fate ties all together, how curious iNdeed...
-=[ ffuuuccckkk fuckkkk i love drawing i love creatin!g !!! things ! i csntbekieve im able to sketch something and turn it into something others can see yessss yesss yaayyy!! !!1!_☺]=-
https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/1d5bdfaef77e.png
((To his credit, he did hit her point blank.
THERE ARE AN INFINITE AMOUNT OF NUMBERS BETWEEN 0 AND 1. NONE ARE NEGATIVE. THIS IS HOW TIMELINES OPERATE. BUT. WHAT OF -1+i? I LIVE THIS QUESTION.
https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/592ddd2174e5.png
I HAVE DECIDED. THAT I WILL EXPAND UPON MY "HEADCANONS". ENJOY THE PONY PALS. https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/0e6907c5969e.png
True art.
MY "HEADCANON". WILL PROBABLY DELETE LATER. IT IS DIFFICULT TO LIKE ONE'S OWN ART. HE WOULD KNOW. I WOULD KNOW. https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/2a1ef89ecf51.png
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQ8hhddV_CO10iMt7PGZ3LSa_qB_Z_ah5 #DetectivePony
#DetectivePony @gutsyGumshoe @gutsyGumshoe#2740 @gutsyGumshoe#7975
After closing the pharmacy, Plato went to retire, to get out of the sun. He took a few steps in the darkness toward the back of his reserves, found himself leaning over a pharmakon, decided to analyze. Within the thick, cloudy liquid, trembling deep inside the drug, the whole pharmacy stood reflected, repeating the abyss of the Platonic phantasm. The analyst cocks his ears, tries to distinguish between the two repetitions. He would like to isolate the good from the bad, the true from the false. He leans over further: they repeat each other. Holding the pharmakon in one hand, the calamus in the other, Plato mutters as he transcribes the play of formulas. In the enclosed space of the pharmacy, the reverberations of the monologue are immeasurably amplified. The walled-in voice strikes against the rafters, the words come apart, bits and pieces of sentences are separated, disarticulated parts begin to circulate through the corridors, become rejoined, bounce off each other, contradict each other, make trouble, tell on each other, come back like answers, organize their exchanges, protect each other, institute an internal commerce, take themselves for a dialogue. Full of meaning. A whole story. An entire history. All of philosophy. -Jacques Derrida, “Plato’s Pharmacy” In the large envelope I carried I could feel the hard-cornered, rubberbanded batches of index cards. We are absurdly accustomed to the miracle of a few written signs being able to contain immortal imagery, involutions of thought, new words with live people, speaking, weeping, laughing. We take it for granted so simply that in a sense, by the very act of brutish routine acceptance, we undo the work of the ages, the history of the gradual elaboration of poetical description and construction, from the treeman to Browning, from the caveman to Keats. What if we awake one day, all of us, and find ourselves utterly unable to read? I wish you to grasp not only at what you read but at the miracle of its being readable (so I used to tell my students). Although I am capable, through long dabbling in blue magic, of imitating any prose in the world (but singularly enough not verse—I am a miserable rhymster), I do not consider myself a true artist, save in one matter: I can do what only a true artist can do—pounce on the forgotten butterfly of revelation, wean myself abruptly from the habit of things, see the web of the world, and the warp and the weft of that web. Solemnly I weighed in my hand what I was carrying under my left armpit, and for a moment I found myself enriched with an indescribable amazement as if informed that fireflies were making decodable signals on behalf of stranded spirits, or that a bat was writing a legible tale of torture in the bruised and branded sky. I was holding all Zembla pressed to my heart. -Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire #DetectivePony