GANDER’S GANDER INTO THE FOLKS OF CHITTR PART ⒌ — @watchingAuthor Profor Tempus Who ♥s big thick walls of text? I know I do! And you should too, since you guys are always WAFFLEPANCAKING about loving big and thick things. (CROWD LAUGHTER) A warning in advance: I get unapologetically corny. If this isn’t to your LIKING, I s↑pose you should scroll ↓ so you can get back to your REGULAR CHITTR SCHEDULE. Of giving hearts to big and thick things. Questionably paranormal pander, let’s Take A Gander at Profor Tempus! Entering Profor Tempus’s domain is like discovering what remains of a library after it had been burned ↓. The books collect dust on the shelves, rickety from DEAD IMPRESSIONS OF FIRE. The subtle scent of CHAR makes your throat itch. Hums of a song you don’t know can be heard distantly. The librarian is a halting corpse. He has been the one humming, expression taut with secrets. But you aren’t deterred. AFTER ALL, YOU CAME FOR A STORY. Miss Tempus is a disturbingly curious one. Almost like he knows how he is to other people. Haunting poems compounded with pitiful accounts of PAINING REM SEQUENCES that pull one ↓ in a miserated grovel. That is the drawback of being an author, methinks. Your pan will ALWAYS BE OVERTHINKING. It’s a sad sight to see: phantom pains, sickness, horrors of the body, mind, soul. What constitutes a friend? It is a lot to take in. His secrets seem to entice one to dig deeper as to who he is. I think I know who he is, or at least what his blood color is, but I would NEVER DEIGN SO LOW as to spill another’s CAN OF BEANS. (But a lusus named ‘Glubglub’ is certainly something to raise brows at.) Unfortunately, the burden of secrecy is something that very clearly Haunts him. Notice that’s a SUBTLE CONSONANT SHIFT from literally everything else that CAPITAL T Taunts him. A saddening sight indeed. It borders on CHRONIC VENTING DISEASE. So that’s ANOTHER layer of pain to the GLOOMCACHE. Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I opted to take a different approach. Yes——in a fashion quite like yours, I give you a VERS LIBRE poem. It’s titled… actually, IDK. I kind of winged it. When the world screams at our bodies to be more, that’s when we ★t to fall apart— that’s when we become pieces And he finds that once they are done beating his heart, carving cruelties in his body, that is all he can cry about So when he again steps to the world, he covers his face and holds his breath and keeps running, to no end Withered wind-↑ toy his weeps take on spaces where backs are turned and bulbs are pa-s-sing Your curse is that you will never know an ending that sees you for who you are and not why you grieve End poem. (SUSPECTED CLA-S-SPECT: ROGUE OF LIFE? Yes, I'll try to do these now.) You are an experience waiting to happen. DON’T FORGET that you can be more than what you were made for. Don’t forget that a pa-s-sion can outshine the body it emanates from. B:o) Be sure to give this sepulchraluvely gent a follow! If YOU (Reader) are interested in being introspected, do NOT dawdle! DM or reply to me for what is basically IMPERCEPTIBLE EXPOSURE! #youremindmeofafriendofmineactually
Oh good - you didn't - realize the - other issues - or secrets - Laughably horrible - at my - main - Rogue of - Life - Don't know what - that means >
They're psychoidentifiers from an old, old game. You would never think it was so POPULAR among the crowd, but there's a ⒈st for everything.