I always thought of this song being about a drug dealer, or a consumer being stopped and questioned if he used drugs, alcohol or similar substances and police being brutal and abusing their power. Now a very interesting line to me "is that the mouthwash in your eyes?" Mouthwash contains alcohol in it so a common excuse when people fail the breathalyzer is to say because of the mouthwash. So the cop sarcastically says "is that the mouthwash in your eyes?" refering to the drivers eyes being glazed over. This is a very clever line that I didn't understand the meaning of at first but now that I know what it's about it's hard not to point it out. Now we obviously know that the driver is at the side of the freeway in the car. My question is why is that? I think it's an easy assumption to make that the "Mr jack" is waiting to make a drug deal. But later in the song he mentions the time being "7am, came to take us away" line that kind of confuses me because this is the time when the trafic is the busiest so a drug deal awaiting to happen doesn't make much sense to me. Then the "little men big guns pointed at our heads" line. I'm not that knowledgable on this topic but from what I've gathered I saw that guns are not used in drug related stops and arrests. So then that makes me think that the Mr.Jack is not a drug dealer but a different kind of criminal. This one is I'm pretty sure the most common interpretation of this song but there are some other theories I saw going around.
Another theory someone had was that somebody, or a group of people had a flat tire and had to pull over. They're on the side of the freeway waiting or looking for mr.jack who could be their friend or possibly a tow truck so they can get back on the road. And cops stop by and help them out only to find out some drugs in their car, and that's why they get arrested. This seems like a fun theory but I don't think it's as likely to be the meaning as the first one I mentioned.
Another fun theory I saw was that "Mr.Jack" was the cop and he was waiting on the side of the freeway in the car waiting to pull someone over, I think the lines "Protectors on your back" "Lights are on your track" best support this theory. Then the "You must now face authority, you're nothing like me" I think this line talks about the misuse of the justice system and how the cops get away with so much stuff that they shouldn't be getting away it. That's why he says "you're nothing like me" since they get a lot more leeway in general.
This theory thinks of Mr.Jack being a metaphor for a car jacker, hence the name Mr.Jack. I like this one but it doesnt make sense to jack a car on the side of the freeway especially at 7 am which is the most busiest time of day for traffic like I said before so it doesn't really stick the landing. And police using their guns also doesn't quite line up so I don't think this one alligns with the story as much as the others do.
I'm not sure what to make of this, I know that a song can have multiple meanings but for me it doesn't really make sense as a complete timeline no matter which way you slice it. Tell me what you guys think about this I'm really interested what you have to say. This is one of my favorite songs lyrically and musically, but it's also very cryptic once you deep dive in. At first you assume it's just a pull over and police being brutal but once you start looking at the details it's not so easy to decipher exactly what's going on.

Hi all! Does anyone have info on what happened on Winchesteairport expressway this evening around 6? I can see from the emergency call log as traffic accident with injury, but cannot find any news articles about it. We live in the neighbors right off Winchester and the sirens were absolutely surreal to listen to. Then we had to leave around 6:15-6:20 and had to turn around on Winchester because of it. I have never seen so many first responders in my life. The entire intersection was lit up. Like multiples of every type of first responder. I’d say well over 10 in total. The amount of fire trucks was especially wild. Hoping everyone is okay.

I’ll keep this brief. I was a fan until today. This album is a rollercoaster that brings zero enjoyment and leaves me nothing but nauseous. This is hands-down the worst album to come out this year and maybe one of the worst of all time. Even more sad is that this is supposed to be a serious record. The lyrics are meaningless, poor attempts at being deep, introspective, and edgy and just end up coming across as trying far too hard. M Shadows voice sounds tired throughout and the shoddy mixing and mastering doesn’t do him any favors. Every single track is a chaotic, incoherent mess, a cacophony of poorly recorded and senseless instrumentation overlaid with weak or overly-processed vocals with lyrics conveying absolutely no meaning whatsoever. If this is all they can produce after 5 years, maybe they should consider retiring.

When I was brand new to NovelAi I had no idea how 2048 tokens really looked as text. So for anyone looking at the tiers, trying to decide how many tokens they want for Clio with the new update, I've tokenized Part of The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald (public domain since 2021).
That way new users can more easily visualize what the AI's maximum context is for each tier. According to the UI Clio uses the NerdStash Tokenizer, as different tokenizers will convert text to tokens their own way.
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In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She
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laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she
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didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
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[Opus: 8192 Tokens ]
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I am an aspiring artist, and I am passionate about writing lyrics, rapping, and freestyling. When it comes to recording software, I have tested many different programs. I can record vocals, import instrumentals, all the basic type of stuff. My biggest challenge is mixing and mastering vocals. I have received feedback from friends and strangers that I could up my game with auto tune and having the right recording equipment. Honestly, I wish it was as easy as having a team working with me, and I wish I had someone that mixed and masted my vocals because it is hard for me to learn and understand. My reason for posting this is to ask for assistance with this. How can I best understand this? Are there mentors that can train an individual like myself to grow in this area? Any advice and guidance anyone has is much appreciated in advance. Thank you, and much love to all!

As the title mentions I'm an advanced-novella RPer looking for GMs or offering myself as a GM for various text-based RPs. I've provided a sample down below and will ask the same of anybody that reaches out. Outside of writing I tend to spend most of my time on games like Knights of the Old Republic 2, New Vegas, and, indeed, the Hobocop Game. I'm an Associate at Amazon with an otherwise unimpressive social life, occasionally leaving the house to play WH40K Tabletop.
Discord is more-or-less required for me to be interested; sample incoming.
​

The boar is not dead, though to all the other hunters’ senses it is. It lays motionless on its side within the sled, tied down by rope with two arrows sticking discordantly out of its hide like seams of broken bone. Frozen blood pools in the cracked stomach of the sled, collecting rather than leaking now that red ice has sealed the wood. Poison leaching out of the arrowheads keeps the boar docile, and its breathing so light that only Trapper can see. An ovate in too-thin robes shivers as she ties a garland of rosemary around the beast’s neck, murmuring prayers to the ancestors that they might find the kill worthy.
Winter has seized the land in its vise, its unending waves of cold and snow having transformed the Barony of Marlas into a crueler scape, one Trapper doesn’t quite recognize. Tranquility abounds along the driven snow, all through the clearing, hiding the buried world and the woes of man but unable to snuff them out. Trapper knows well what a mirage it is, the oppressive winters of his homeland no less savage than the bloodletting summers. The numbing cold does not soothe his aches, for he knows they’ll be worse come morning, come the thaw. Too soon this clearing will melt, its river gone from white to red, the whole Septima Line thrust back to war.
Baron Orys refuses to yield to midnight season, to accept its peace, and so from his great warhorse’s saddle he brazenly belts out a mixture of drunken lyrics and commands, determined to master this hunt even if he does not partake. An entourage on horseback spreads out in his orbit, ranging from eager young footmen to grizzled junkers, all in varying states of inebriation at his command. Their braying is nearly louder than the hounds’, who hungrily stalk between the sled and the hole they pulled the boar out from. Teased by the hunt but yet unrewarded, they’re too unruly to be kept in check by the kennel master.
On foot slog the unfortunates who actually have to take part in the hunt, Trapper among them. They huddle into their hemp canvas cloaks, glancing up at the moody afternoon sky threatening to crack open with another snowstorm. Dark clouds sweep in low from the south like a riptide, a single vast current swept in from the mountains already menacing the Oldwoods. Its furthest gales reach them as tongues of vengeful cold, flecks of whipped-up snow biting into Trapper’s exposed skin.
By the boar’s nest leans a typical Mallean, one of Trapper’s two erstwhile comrades. Sigorn is tall, pale, broad, with the close-set, wide-boned features of a commoner, and a shock of red hair grown out to protect against the elements. Beneath his cloak he proudly bears his blood-flecked armor, each dent a Darkman put into it a point of dear pride. He’s not the only one, either, the clearing filled with dozens of youths whose first blooding ended in victory amid a blizzard. Baron Orys, deep into his cups after six days of nonstop celebration, saw a break in the storms and gladly called a hunt. When informed he could not go on account of his shattered knee - he simply grinned, and ordered himself tied to his saddle.
Trapper remembers the moment his lord fell from the saddle, burned into his nerves. The screaming of horses, skidding hooves catching on the frozen ground. On the edges of his vision a rider smashes into a branch in the din, others don’t move at all for fear of the blizzard. His spurs dig, his borrowed steed whines, and he races for his lord - only for another to reach him first.
“What a woman.” Sigorn sighs beside Trapper, craning his neck to look at one of their lord’s companions of honor. Susannah Oye, junker unlike the others, a pretty, willowy noblewoman well into motherhood, with the lean, ruthless look of a ranger. Her two poisoned arrows are what struck the boar down, and her pride curls off her body like steam. Sigorn’s face cracks into exaggerated appreciation, and then he turns to their lord’s other honored companion. Another woman, this one as young as they are, haughtily-built and leering with none of Susannah’s refinement. Many of those looks are reserved for Trapper, forced to slog on foot as just another hunter. “Anya too. I think she fancies you, eh?”

​

Here is the result:
Mark had always been a diligent and focused accountant, buried in numbers and spreadsheets day after day. But when his colleagues invited him to his first-ever office pizza party, he couldn't resist the opportunity to unwind and indulge in some much-needed fun.
The venue was a cozy little pizzeria, with dim lighting and a lively atmosphere. As Mark entered, the enticing aroma of freshly baked dough and melted cheese filled his senses. He noticed his coworkers scattered around, laughing and chatting, their professional facades temporarily cast aside.
Grabbing a slice of piping hot pizza, Mark found himself a seat at a corner booth, eager to observe the festivities unfolding around him. The room buzzed with animated conversations and playful banter, creating an atmosphere charged with excitement.
Amidst the laughter, Mark's eyes met the gaze of a stunning colleague, Jessica, who worked in the marketing department. Her long, flowing hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her mischievous smile hinted at hidden desires. They had exchanged occasional glances at the office, but this evening, something felt different.
Jessica, sensing the electricity between them, gracefully made her way toward Mark. Her hips swayed subtly, drawing his attention to her every movement. She sat down next to him, her warmth and presence electrifying the air.
As the night progressed, the conversation between Mark and Jessica became increasingly flirtatious, their words filled with innuendos and subtle touches of seduction. They shared their desires and fantasies, whispered secrets that ignited a flame deep within them both.
In a daring move, Jessica leaned closer, her lips tantalizingly close to Mark's ear. "I've always been curious about accountants," she purred, her voice dripping with seduction. "Tell me, what do you do with all those numbers? Can you make them... add up in other ways?"
Mark's heart raced as he felt her warm breath against his skin. Emboldened, he responded, "Oh, Jessica, I have a way with numbers that might surprise you. I can make them dance, intertwine, and create a masterpiece of pleasure."
Their eyes locked, their connection intensifying. The anticipation became unbearable, and they excused themselves from the crowded booth, eager to explore the depths of their desires.
In the dimly lit alley behind the pizzeria, Mark and Jessica found solace from prying eyes. Their lips collided in a passionate kiss, their tongues intertwining with a hunger that had been building for far too long. Their bodies pressed against each other, each touch sending shivers of pleasure through their veins.
Mark's hands wandered, exploring every curve and contour of Jessica's body. The soft fabric of her dress slipped away, revealing her supple skin and enticing curves. With a flicker of desire in his eyes, Mark lifted her up against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist, and their bodies melding together as one.
Time seemed to stand still as they gave in to their shared fantasies. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, a rhythm fueled by desire and an insatiable hunger. Moans of pleasure filled the air as they reached new heights, their passion igniting like a wildfire.
Afterward, as they caught their breath, Mark and Jessica exchanged a knowing smile, their connection now etched in their memories. The pizza party had transformed into an intimate encounter that surpassed their wildest dreams, leaving them both hungry for more.
From that day forward, whenever Mark saw a slice of pizza or attended another office party, he couldn't help but recall that electrifying night with Jessica, forever changing the way he viewed numbers and the tantalizing possibilities they held.

Imagine walking into a burning building, and everyone laughs and tells you the fire’s all in your head. When no one believes you, are you going to stay to burn up with them? Every passenger in that crowd waiting to embark on the luxury cruise was already dead—they just didn’t know it yet! I stared through the windows of the terminal at the magnificent Seastar, at the broken glass and spatters of blood that only I could see… and then I fled.
Without warning a single soul.
What would have been the point? My name is Cassandra—I see death six days before it happens, and can feel it if I shake a cold hand—but no matter what I do, I can never, ever prevent it.
My flight took me as far as the escalators before a flash of purple brought me screeching to a halt. Lily Tsuki? No—it wasn’t the purple-haired musician who’d given me with cruise gift card. But suddenly I remembered how I’d been looking forward to hearing her performance aboard this very vessel…
Oh God…
It was one thing to turn my back on doomed strangers. Terrible as it sounds, it’s a bit like reading about a catastrophe in the news. Quite another thing to abandon somebody I knew! Could I really leave her to become one of the bodies putrefying in the belly of the Seastar? Every time I ordered a drink at my favorite bar, I’d remember I hadn’t even tried to save her!
“Fuck!” I cried, fumbling for my phone. “Oh, fuck me sideways… how much time…?”
Ninety minutes.
Ninety minutes to get on board, find the musician, and… what? Convince her to disembark?
How?
And yet my feet were already turning toward the gangplank—because as it turns out, I would rather plunge headlong into a ship full of the rotting dead than face an empty piano bench and the guilt that no amount of alcohol would ever drown. But to have any chance at persuading Lily, I’d need to know how the passengers died. This meant that in addition to finding a purple-haired needle in a Titanic-sized haystack, a horrifying task loomed ahead of me. I was going to have to do something I had not done in a very long time—plunge directly into my vision. Walk into its very maw and face whatever gruesome horrors lurked at the source of that nauseating odor.
I was going to have to find the bodies…
… and whatever killed them.
Boarding
The stench was so overpowering after crossing the gangplank that I dropped to my knees and dry heaved. The flow of passengers moved around me past the concierge desk. I must have looked exceptionally sick, because a pretty girl in a suit skirt approached, asking if I needed assistance. She reached out a hand to help me up—cold!
I staggered away from her and inside. Then—because I felt I might throw up—quickly found my way out to the promenade deck and the blessed breeze.
Lifeboats hung overhead. Beyond the rail, the sea sparkled in the afternoon sun. Cushioned loungers lined the deck. None were in use, presumably because the pool, patio, spa, and other amenities on the upper decks had much more attractive areas for lounging. I leaned against the rail and gulped the air, listening to the waves splash against the side of the boat, noting blood spatters further down—but nothing signifying the cause of the blood. Just vague signs of violence.
After circling the entire promenade deck and spotting only the occasional bloody spatters, I gritted my teeth, pulled my shirt collar up over my nose, and plunged into the nearest door.
The Seastar’s interior had the atmosphere of a luxury hotel. People milled about the restaurant and shopping area, buzzing with excitement, talking about cabaret shows and fine dining, while perky crew members answered questions, all perfectly oblivious to the putrid sweet rotting stench. I’d most likely find Lily Tsuki at the piano lounge, but since I didn’t yet have any plausible explanation for what had happened to the passengers, I continued wandering, entering a bustling café overlooking the ship’s grand staircase. Stepping over an enormous blood stain on the carpet, I passed the counter, nauseated by the fancy pastries behind their glass cases, peering among the tables and chairs. Paused when I spotted an eyeball in a teacup. No trace of how it got there. No body with an empty socket. Just the eyeball, swirling in a congealed bloody jelly at the bottom of the cup…
I scurried away, snatching a cloth napkin to cover my nose.
The interior darkened as I ascended the central staircase. No electricity, I noted as I clutched the railing. Why would the power be cut? A storm?
But storms don’t scoop out eyeballs with a dessert spoon….
Coming onto deck 6, I peered down a long, dim corridor lined with passenger cabins. To passengers coming and going, the hall was illuminated by electric lighting—but since I was seeing the ship six days in the future, the narrow hallway vanished into blackness. With no way to enter the cabins, and nothing much to see here or in the other dimmed halls of the passenger decks, I ascended until I reached the pool.
Pool Deck
Deck 9 opened to wide panoramic windows, dining, a spa, and of course the pool. I emerged outdoors with relief, removing the napkin from my nose as the sea breeze gave some respite from the odor.
Around me, people partied in bikinis and beachwear and suits, sipping all manner of drinks around the sky-blue swimming pool. A young woman stretched on a blood-spattered lounger, oblivious to the gore beneath her tanned figure. A few bodies floated among the swimmers, bloated and discolored. My vision shimmered briefly as a teen boy swam right through one of the bodies, splashing as if it were not there. My heart lurched when I realized that it was his own, albeit dressed in different clothes—
“Oof!” I grunted as a small figure bashed into me, her arm grazing mine.
“Sorry!” cried a little girl in a pink swimsuit, bolting by as her mother yelled at her to watch out for people.
I tried not to think of how cold the little girl’s arm felt. Counted the bodies: eight in the pool. One by the towel bin, head caved in. I made a circuit of the pool, occasionally brushing against people—cold, cold, cold.
No survivors, it seemed.
But why?
That was when I spotted a shirtless old man sitting at a table under an umbrella. I froze, goosebumps prickling along my skin. Unlike the floaters, there was no obvious reason for his death. His back was to me, the bare skin of his shoulders gray and blotchy. In his hand he held a broken drinking glass. He was positioned in repose… so what killed him?
My heart quickened as I moved round to the front of him.
His mouth hung open, shards of glass and a mangled tongue lolling out, crimson trailing down his shirt front. The source of the chewed glass was obvious—the cup in his hand was broken, its jagged edges bloody.
He’d died choking on the glass.
“What the fuck is happening here?” I whispered.
Forward Stairwell
The jogging track and the sundeck—decks 10 and 11—offered a stunning bird’s eye of the pool and ocean, but I did not stop to take this in as I circled to the bow, opting to take the forward stairs down, rather than central.
The stench hit me like a cloud.
I had to stop as I descended into the dim stairwell, clinging to the railing, doubled over, gagging. It was so so bad. My eyes watered. My stomach bucked. And it was dark. Thank God for my phone’s flashlight. I fumbled it on and, napkin firmly over my nose, plunged down into the depths… The phone’s thin illumination flashed along the carpeted stairwell and the hall of the first of the passenger decks. I kept descending. Paused at an unidentifiable slick red mound. I was examining it under my light when a crewmember jogged up to me and asked, “Lose something, miss?” “Just my marbles,” I muttered, shooing the crew member away and inadvertently brushing his hand. Cold. I turned my attention back to the mound.
A slimy pile of intestines on the stairwell… trailing down to a disemboweled body.
Intestines… eyeballs… eating broken glass… nothing about this makes sense! I swiveled the beam to check further downward.
That was when I found the source of the odor.
My path down was obstructed by a mass of bodies. The ones underneath seemed to have been trampled, but the ones on top… I squeezed my watering eyes and retched against the wall. Some of the bodies bore horrible mutilations—fingers bent and twisted, joints out of alignment, faces smashed in and jaws torn open. Many more appeared to have been crushed in the press of bodies. Best guess, there was a wave of panicked people rushing upstairs from below, colliding with a wave of others fleeing down from above.
Why this staircase? What was near this part of the ship?
The cabaret lounge, I realized. No electricity. No elevators. This was the nearest stairwell to the auditorium.
Closer. I was inching closer to uncovering the fates of the passengers. And yet, I still had no idea what the passengers were fleeing from. Who were the attackers? Or… I thought of the eyeball. The glass chewed and swallowed.
An icy pinprick at the base of my skull whispered the question I didn’t want to ask…
Why? Why did some of the passengers go mad, and do it to themselves?
Piano Bar
I took the long way round to the cabaret theatre, going all the way back up the stairs and coming down on the central staircase, only to detour on hearing the notes of a piano. I found myself in a cozy lounge and spotted a purple-haired figure at the keys. And just in time—the ship was due to depart in less than half an hour!
“Lily!” I rushed over.
The musician’s face lit. “Oh it’s you, friend! You made it!”
“You’ve got to get off the ship!”
“Off the—”
“I know it seems crazy but you’ve got to! Everyone on board is going to die—I’ve seen it because I’m psycho!” I heard it a second later and smacked my forehead. “I mean—psychic! PSYCHIC!! I can see the future.” At her scrunched eyebrows, I burst, “Look I know how I sound, but I’ve been able to see things since I was a little girl, and I am telling you that this ship is going to go dark! The engines will cut out! People are going to flee and trample each other on that forward staircase…” Launching into a rapid-fire recounting, I was just getting to the eyeball in the teacup when she interrupted:
“You’re afraid of some sort of terrorist attack?”
“No, no! No! It’s almost like… a kind of madness, a contagion, that spreads through the ship—”
“A zombie apocalypse?”
“Not zombies…”
“Poltergeists? Possession?” She played a riff from a horror movie. “Should we call an exorcist?”
“We should leave!” I checked my phone. “Quickly!—"
“What an odd duck you are! I can’t imagine any sort of catastrophe as big as you’re saying. You know this ship has tons of safety protocols. And even if I did believe some disaster were drawing near—do you really think I could abandon crowds and crew?” She looked at me over her glasses, shimmering purple lips curving in a smile. “Listen friend, if this were the Titanic and I was the only one who could see the iceberg, I’d stay to steer us right, not run off leaving everyone to die!”
Icy fingers raked along my spine. Even if she wasn’t taking me seriously, she was right—I did have a moral obligation to save people. An obligation I’d been trying to fulfill ever since I was a little girl, until the attempt killed my brother, and even after, I kept trying for years and years…. until at last I realized that there is no way to change anything. That is why I call myself Cassandra. For the Greek prophet doomed to predict the future but never be believed. Try and prevent what I’ve foreseen? You might as well try and pluck the stars from the sky!
Every hand I’d touched was cold. Everyone on board would die.
My fists balled, fingernails digging so hard into my palms they bled. “You really have no idea what you’re asking of me…”
“Oh, I’m not telling you to stay. I’m just explaining why I have to. Besides, I’m under contract.” She winked and focused on her playing as guests entered and sat at nearby tables.
She had no idea! None whatsoever! If I thought there was even a sliver of a hope, I wouldn’t abandon people! Oh, if this happy-go-lucky musician understood the futility!!
But she will, came another, darker thought. She will know the full depth of the horror coming…
“No,” I whispered.
“Huh?” She shouted, “Wait—friend, where are you going?”
But I was not listening. The cabaret theatre—was the answer there? The reason for the crush of bodies in the forward stairwell? I rushed past the cafe with the eyeball in the teacup, through the grand doors into the cabaret hall—
—but the cabaret hall was surprisingly quiet, save for a light touch of classical music. A few passengers mingled here or there, unnoticing of the cadavers draped on chairs and tables. The stage itself was pristine, the wood smooth and polished in the fading orange light through the windows. Apparently, the origin of the panicked flight up the forward stairwell was not this grand entertainment venue—nothing here supported that theory.
Nonetheless, I gave the place a thorough search until my phone’s battery ran low, and then I returned to the grand staircase.
In one direction lay passenger cabins. In the other, the gangplank back to the port terminal and safety.
“It’s not too late to be a coward, Cass,” I said. “Run from the ship, run from the empty piano bench at the bar, find a different, cheaper hole in the wall to crawl into like—like the cockroach you are…”
Always the survivor, eh…?
Or… or, I could try just one more time. “‘Hope,’” my brother always said, “is the thing with feathers.”
And look what happened to him! flashed through my mind. My heart slammed against my ribcage. I’d just die too, unless I left in the next—how many minutes? I checked my phone, but it was dead. Like I would be if I stayed.
A horn sounded the Seastar’s departure. A distant cheer rose up from the upper decks and balconies. I felt a brief panicky impulse to run back out on deck and throw myself off the ship… but in truth, my fate had already been decided before the ship’s horn blew. I hadn’t been paying attention earlier, but I’d been rubbing and rubbing my hands, and finally realized they were cold. Probably had been since I’d boarded. I shuffled leaden feet toward the passenger cabins, guided by my phone’s light to the brass number plate for 4044—my cabin. Reached for the knob and stopped.
That smell—dread squeezed my intestines like a wet rag.
Smoke. Burnt meat.
I wrinkled my nose and opened the door.
Orange rays shone through the window, the sunset so vivid it almost gave the illusion that the room was on fire. The walls and ceiling were charred. The edges of the mattress and sheets a smoldered ruin. But the worst damage was the small sofa by the coffee table. Broken bottles scattered round. And there on the sofa—
My fingers went limp on the door handle as I stared into melted sockets of a body charred beyond recognition. A dark line encircled its wrist. The blackened remnants of a charm bracelet.
My bracelet.
While the man on the pool deck swallowed glass, I would succumb to the insanity here, dousing myself in alcohol and flame—
—immolating myself.
[Part 1]

Hello friends! Coming here to seek some advice. I’m 32 yM. Single (have a dog). Was in active addiction for 10ish years so wasn’t the best with money. I’m still working on spending habits but am clean/sober for over a year now.
Due to my sobriety and gaining the trust of my parents again/with the help of my parents I was able to buy a house November 2022. Got mortgage locked in before rates went “somewhat high”.
I have $5k in my checking; 15k in savings. Maintained working real job since college. 401k is roughly around 30k. Lately I’ve been doing weekly buys of $300 using fidelity split mainly between VOO/IOO/VDE/VXUS/JEPI and then smaller buys of KSA/LIT/ARKX
I know these smaller buys aren’t the way to great wealth but it’s all I can do. Would you suggest saving up/using bonus to invest or continuing weekly buys? I know this is choppy….doing this on my phone/on the fly.
Summary: continue weekly $300 buys split between ETFs or lump sump when I can. Will add more details later. Thanks!
Edit: having hard time setting financial goals for long term/short term. Any insight or reading material is appreciated! I come to Reddit for solutions. Lots of smart people in this sub. Goal is to work towards net worth of $50k/$75k for now!

February 8, 2146, Project Chameleon HQ, Brussels, PRE
It has been a few weeks since Project Autumn has returned back to her normal life. Her days were pretty routine. She would wake up and eat breakfast. Then head to briefs and classes. Then, she would eat lunch before heading off to drills and training that left her sore and extremely fatigued. Autumn would eat dinner, shower, talk to Juliette for a few hours before falling asleep to do it all over again. The days soon became three weeks since she saw Juliette in person. Autumn’s next mission to Rio was quickly approaching. Autumn was excited about it, but what she really wanted to do was spend time with the girl that she really liked. Her training was done, and she was packing her bags for her mission. Autumn was told that she would be a part of the next gauntlet that would take place after she gets back from Rio. She was very excited about it and couldn’t wait to tell Juliette. Autumn looked at the time and saw that it was still five hours before she would normally call Juliette. She was bored, lonely, and really wanted to talk to her. Autumn wrestled with this as she packed her bags.
Agents of Chaos HQ, New York City Containment Zone, PRE
Icari raced through one of the remaining buildings of what was once an overpopulated city. Most of what was once known as New York City was destroyed during the Great War. The city was deserted and hardly anyone lived there. It became the perfect location for the headquarters for the Agents of Chaos. Icari found this out through hacking the government’s mainframe. She decided to put an end to them once and for all. Icari also wanted to know what their connection was to the Prospers. She raced floor to floor eliminating their commanders and whoever she came across. Soon, she found the last remaining members as she stalked
them in the lower parts of the building with her curved blades ready to strike. Icari cornered them ready to end the threat of the Agents of Chaos. They knew that they were out of bullets and out of time. They huddled in fear from what they perceived to be their inevitable demise.
“Wait! Please, don’t kill us.” Agent 1 said with fear in their voice.
Icari was shocked and amused as she stopped and said, “Wait…what? Why shouldn’t I?”
“Be…because we are extremely sorry for all of the stuff that we have done.” Agent 1 replied.
Icari scoffed and started to move closer to them. She suddenly froze when she received a notice of an incoming call. Icari smiled when she saw that it was from Project Autumn.
Icari looked at the Agents and said, “Hey, can you all give me some time. I really need to answer this call.” Icari answered the call with a French accent. “Hello, Mademoiselle Autumn. Is everything alright?”
“Did. Did she just put us on hold?” Agent 1 asked.
“I know right and what’s up with the French accent?” Agent 2 replied.
Icari glared at the agents and put a finger to her lips to silence them. They quickly covered their mouths with their hands with fear in their eyes.
Autumn replied, “Hi, Juliette. It is so good to hear your voice. Yes, everything is fine. I am packing for my mission to Rio. I was bored and lonely. I started to think about you and how much I really miss you.”
Icari smiled as she sat down on a desk facing the agents and said. “Aww. That is sweet of you to say. I have been thinking about you too.”
Autumn said, “I hope that I am not bothering you or anything. Are you busy right now?”
Icari replied, “No, not at all. I was taking care of something easy, but it can wait.”
Autumn quickly replied, “Are you sure? We can talk later if you want.”
Icari smiled and said, “No, it’s okay. I am sure that we can talk now.”
Meanwhile, the remaining Agents of Chaos began to argue with one another about what they
should do. Icari could hear their bickering and became extremely annoyed with everything that they were saying. She stood up and glared at them.
Icari counted the remaining agents, sighed, and said, “Autumn, give me a moment, please. It should take me… about thirty seconds to finish this simple task.”
Autumn replied, “Umm…sure. Take your time. I will be here when you are done. Please don’t take too long.”
Icari smiled and said, “Thank you, Mademoiselle. I promise not to keep you waiting long.”
Icari lunged at the remaining agents as they backed away in horror. Fifteen seconds later, Icari had taken care of the last remaining Agent of Chaos. She picked up a cloth and cleaned her daggers. Icari put them away before she pulled out a black disc out of her pocket. She headed towards their command center.
Icari asked, “Autumn, are you still with me?”
Autumn quickly replied, “Yes, yes. I am still here.”
Icari smiled as she put the disc on the main computer’s case and pushed a button as lights began to light up clockwise. She smiled and said, “Thank you for waiting.”
Autumn smiled and replied, “You’re welcome. I would have waited longer.” Autumn teased as she continued. “But… I guess the issue wasn’t as difficult as you thought.”
Icari laughed and said as she left the command center, “Sorry, I suppose I overestimated how difficult the issue would be.”
Autumn laughed and said, “I guess that I wouldn’t know, but the reason that I called you earlier than normal is I have news that I couldn’t wait to tell you at our normal time.”
Icari picked up a bag as she headed down the stairs to the basement where the building’s support beams were located. Icari said, “News? I appreciate you calling me to give us more time to talk, but what is the news?”
Autumn replied as Icari put small boxes with tubes filled with a green and yellow substance on the support beams and flipped a switch, “Yes, I was told earlier today, that after I get back from the mission to Rio, I will take part in the next gauntlet to decide who I may get paired with. What do you think?”
Icari was shocked and froze when she heard the news. She became scared that it would become a lot more difficult for her to see Autumn. Many feelings and thoughts ran through her head.
Autumn became concerned and asked, “Juliette, are you still there?”
Icari shook her head and replied, “Sorry, to make you concerned, and I am happy for you. Are you excited about your mission to Rio?”
Icari threw the empty bag aside after she placed the last box. She started to head back up the steps to the command center.
Autumn was excited as she replied, “I am super excited to be going for a couple weeks. They said that I deserve it from all of the stuff that I have dealt with lately. It will be two weeks of nothing but swimming and relaxing in the summer air.” Autumn became nervous as she continued. “B-but I- I w-wish that you could be there. It would be my first Valentine’s Day spending it with someone that I really like.”
Icari saw that all of the lights were lit green as she retrieved the black disc. She smiled and said, “Well. Mademoiselle, I may be able to make your wish come true.”
Autumn was shocked as she said, “Really? Tell me you aren’t joking or teasing me. Are you being serious?”
Icari had walked down the stairs to a door that led to an alley. She smiled and replied, “I would not joke or tease you to turn around and break your heart. I cannot make any promises, but I will make sure that I will do my best to help your wish come true.”
Icari walked out the door and pushed a button on her wrist. Suddenly, a black and red motorcycle appeared in the shadows with a black and red helmet with cat ears on it.
Autumn was sad as she said, “I understand. I thought that it would be a great time spending the two weeks with you instead of alone by myself.”
Icari sat on the motorcycle and put on the helmet. The sun started to peek in the east sky. She started
up the motorcycle as she replied, “Do not be sad, Autumn. I promise you that you will have my answer by the time that you land in Rio. You might be surprised by what I can do in such a short period of time.”
Icari pushed a button on her motorcycle as she drove off and disappeared from site. She pushed another button that caused an explosion behind her, and the building collapsed into dust.
Autumn blushed and said, “I believe you and look forward to your answer. Listen, I have to finish packing, eat dinner, and shower. Can I call you later?”
Icari smiled as she replied, “I understand, and you can call me whenever you like. I look forward to talking to you soon, Mademoiselle Autumn.”
Autumn said, “I look forward to talking to you soon too, Juliette. Bye for now.”
Icari said, “Bye for now.” There was a small click. Icari sighed before she continued. “Watcher, are you there?”
Watcher scoffed. “Yes, I am here. Are you done flirting with your girlfriend?” Watcher said annoyed.
Icari snapped back, “I wasn’t flirting with her, and she isn’t my girlfriend. Listen. When I get back to the safe house, I will be uploading the files that I uploaded from the Agents of Chaos mainframe. I need you to decipher the files to see if they were working for the Prospers and any other useful information.”
“Anything else?” Watcher asked.
Icari replied, “Yes, I need you to immediately hack into the system and book a flight for me from Harrisburg to Rio De Janeiro. I need a limousine to take myself and Autumn to the harbor, where a boat will ferry us to a beach home on Paqueta Island. We will be there for two weeks. Put everything under the name Juliette Trudeau.”
“Why should I?” Watcher asked abrasively.
Icari replied, “Well, you have two choices. Either I am out of your hair for two weeks, or I make your life a living hell for the next two weeks. Then, I still book it on my own. You choose.”
“Fine. Fine. It’s not like I care if you spend time with your girlfriend or not. Everything will be taken care of by the time you make it to the safe house and upload the files.” Watcher replied.
Icari snapped back, “For the last time, she is not my girlfriend! And thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mention it. It is kind of nice to see you happy once more. Have fun and
remember that we have a war to win.” Watcher said kindly.
Icari smiled and said, “Yeah, I won’t forget.”
An hour and a half later, Icari pulled into the safe house in Harrisburg. She pushed a button on her motorcycle and the garage door opened. Icari pushed the button, and it closed. She pushed another button, and they became visible once more. Icari took off her helmet and placed it on her motorcycle. She walked to a wall in the garage and revealed a secret panel. Icari inputted the code, and a secret staircase was revealed. She walked down the stairs as the wall closed behind her. A room lit up as she opened the door. The computer turned on and system was running. Icari approached the computer as she took the black disc out of her pocket. She put the disc on a reader. The lights flashed on and worked in reverse. Icari received the itinerary, confirmation for the rentals, and digital tickets. As the disc was uploaded to their mainframe, Icari walks to a closet marked for Juliette. She opened up the closet and pulled out two bags already packed for her for two weeks in a summer environment. Icari closed the door. When she was done, she walked over to check the disc and saw that it was fully uploaded. Icari grabbed the bags and walked up the stairs. When she got near the top, the computer shut down, door sealed closed, and the secret door into the garage opened. After Icari had passed, the door closed and sealed shut. Icari walked into a normal home and left the bags near the front door. She cooked lunch at the same time Autumn would call her. They talked for a few hours before Autumn headed to bed. Soon, Autumn and Icari headed to their perspective airports to start their journey to Rio. Five hours and forty-five minutes later, Juliette’s plan landed at the International Airport in Rio
De Janeiro. She grabbed her carry-on bag and went to get her check in luggage. Juliette headed for the main doors and walked out into a sunny midmorning day. The air was refreshing, and it was already setting up to be a warm day. Juliette had made sure to change her appearance before she left for the airport. Juliette looked around and saw a limousine. The driver was standing outside it. He was holding a sign with Juliette Trudeau written on it in big letters. She smiled and walked over to him. The driver eyed her as she approached.
Juliette said,” Olá, eu sou Juliette Trudeau.”
The driver lowered the sign. “Olá, eu estive esperando por você, Sra. Trudeau.” The driver replied.
Juliette smiled and asked, “Can I see your sign while you put in my bags in the trunk, please?”
The driver bowed. “As you wish, Sra. Trudeau. Your guest should arrive soon from Brussels.” The driver replied as he handed over the sign and a marker.
Juliette smiled as she took the sign and marker from the driver while she said, “Obrigado.”
“De nada, Sra. Trudeau.” The driver said as he placed Juliette’s luggage in the back.
He walked to where Juliette was and took the sign and marker from her. The driver opened the door for Juliette to get in. When she was seated, he closed the door and stood outside of the limousine. Thirty minutes later, Juliette’s heart began to race as she saw Autumn walk out of the airport with her luggage in tow. Autumn had put on her glasses and looked around. She froze when she looked towards the limousine. Autumn slowly walked over to the driver.
Autumn cautiously said, “Hi, I am Project Autumn. Are you looking for me?”
The driver bowed. “Yes, I have been expecting you, Sra. Autumn. Let me put your luggage in the trunk.” The driver replied.
Autumn thought, “I never would think that Project Chameleon would have a limo waiting for me at the airport.”
Autumn replied, “Umm… sure. Thank you.”
The driver opened the door for Autumn to get in. He closed the door after she was comfortably seated in the back of the limousine. Autumn watched the driver take her stuff to the back. She was startled, and her heartbeat faster when she heard the sound of a familiar voice from inside the limousine.
Juliette smiled and said, “Hello, Mademoiselle, Autumn.”
Autumn instinctively lunged at Juliette as she turned to face her and kissed her lips. She immediately realized what she had done from the shocked look on Juliette’s face and blushed as she moved away. Juliette smiled and took Autumn’s hands into her own.
Autumn said, “Hi, and I’m sorry Juliette. I don’t know what came over me. I just got so excited that you were here.” Autumn took a deep breath before she continued. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
Juliette replied, “It’s okay. I am happy to see you too. I told you that you would have my answer by the time that you had landed here. I thought that the best way for me to give you my answer was to be here in person to give it to you.”
They heard the sound of the trunk closing and saw the driver walk down the side of the limousine to the driver’s door. He opened it, got in, closed the door, and started the engine. He pulled away from the cub and headed towards the pier.
Autumn said, “I am really glad that you brought your answer to me. When did you get here? How long will you be able to stay here?”
Juliette squeezed Autumn’s hands and smiled as she replied, “So am I. I got here around two hours before you did. If it is alright with you, I plan on being here the entire two weeks that you are.”
Autumn smiled as she said, “Yes, yes. That would be perfect for me. But…where are we headed?”
Juliette winked as she replied, “It is a secret, and you will have to find out when we get there.”
The driver drove them through town as they talked in the back of the limousine. When they arrived at the pier, The driver parked the limousine and got out. He went to the side and opened the
door. Autumn and Juliette got out and looked around. They spotted a yacht ready to go as the driver took their luggage out of the trunk. Some men came over and grabbed their luggage, and they followed them onto the yacht as the limousine pulled away. Thirty minutes later the yacht pulled away from the pier and headed towards a small island. Autumn looked around excitedly as Juliette smiled and watched her reactions. Soon, they had docked at the island. Another limousine was waiting at the pier as they got off the yacht. The same two men carried their luggage off of the yacht, and the driver put the luggage in the trunk of the limousine after Autumn and Juliette got in. They drove them a little ways until they reached an office building. Juliette got out and checked in. She came back out with their keys. The driver drove them to the beach front rental home. As Autumn got out, she was amazed. She turned to face Juliette as the driver took their luggage out of the trunk.
Juliette smiled brightly as she said, “Surprise.”
Autumn was still shocked as she asked, “Are we staying here the entire time?
Juliette nodded as she replied, “Oui, this is the rental home that I had reserved for us the two weeks. Are you surprised?”
Autumn looked at home and back at Juliette. She blushed as she replied, “Very much so. I can’t believe that you would go through all of this trouble just for me. Thank you.”
Juliette smiled and said, “It was no trouble at all to see you. You’re very welcome. Shall we go inside?”
Autumn blushed and replied, “Yes, I would like that.”
They grabbed their luggage and headed to the front door. Juliette pulled out the key cards and handed one to Autumn. She swiped the key card reader. It beeped, turned green, and an audible click could be heard signaling that it had been unlocked. They headed inside and were at awe from how beautiful everything looked. They looked around and saw two large rooms, a kitchen, patio, living room, both rooms had a bathroom, a breakfast nook, pool, jacuzzi, grill, study, and everything that someone would need. They walked back to the bedrooms.
Juliette asked, “Which room would you like to take?”
Autumn looked away and replied, “Well…I was…thinking that…that we could share…the same room, if…if you don’t mind.”
Juliette smiled and replied, “I don’t mind. I would enjoy that very much.”
Autumn smiled and said, “I would like that too.”
They picked the largest room and took their stuff in there. They put everything away and decided to change into their swimsuits. They headed to the beach and swam for a while. Autumn and Juliette grew closer through the days. They spent every day together. On Valentine’s Day, they went swimming when the sun rose. Autumn and Juliette came back and feed each other chocolates and ate chocolates. They laughed and were having fun until Juliette remembered that soon Autumn would leave for the labyrinth to run the gauntlet and became sad. Autumn noticed this and became concerned.
Autumn was concerned as she asked, “What is wrong, Juliette? Why are you so sad?”
Juliette frowned as she replied, “I just remembered that you will be going away soon for the gauntlet
where they will team you up with a new partner. Then, there will be no room for me in your…”
Juliette was shocked as she looked up at Autumn who had put her finger on her lips.
Autumn smiled warmly as she said, “No one will take your place in my heart, Juliette. I don’t care who they pair me with, but you will be the only one for me. So, do not worry about that. I will always be only yours.”
Juliette smiled and lunged forward knocking Autumn over and the chocolates onto the floor. She kissed Autumn deeply. The day past and was the best Valentine’s Day Autumn ever had. She woke up the next morning to realize that Juliette wasn’t in bed with her. Autumn could hear Juliette’s voice carrying in from the patio. She decided to see what is going on. She was sleepy as she got up, stretched and yawned as she put on a robe. She walked to the patio as she rubbed her eyes.
Juliette said, “.... Yes I... I promise that...See you...I.., you.”
Autumn smiled when she saw Juliette watching the sun rise. She was in a robe and held a cup of coffee. Autumn walked over to Juliette and hugged her from behind. She caught the smell of the coffee, the morning air, the beach, and Juliette’s hair. Juliette smiled and giggled from Autumn’s warm embrace. She leaned back into her. Then, Juliette turned around to face Autumn and handed her the mug that she was holding as she leaned against the railing. Autumn sipped coffee and smiled.
Juliette said, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
Autumn smiled and nodded as she replied, “Good morning. I slept very well. I woke up, and you weren’t in bed. I heard you talking to someone. Is everything okay? Who were you talking to?”
Juliette took the mug from Autumn as she replied, “I am sorry to have worried you. I am usually back in bed before you wake up. Yes, everything is fine. I was talking to Dr. Hubert like I do every morning to make sure everything is okay back at home. You know that you could always just run away with me. I know a place where they will never find us. We could start a new life together.”
Autumn smiled warmly as she said, “I am glad everything is going well back home for you. I would like that, but you know that I can’t leave. We would have to look over our shoulders for the rest of our lives on the run.”
Juliette frowned, looked at the mug, and replied, “I know, and I wouldn’t want to live on the run either.” Juliette paused before she continued. “I just have a bad feeling about this. Please, stay safe.”
Autumn put her hands on Juliette’s as she replied, “I will be safe. There is nothing to worry about. The gauntlet is completely safe, because only training rounds are allowed to tally up scores. I will call you immediately after it is over to prove that nothing happened to me.”
Juliette looked into Autumns eyes and said, “I hope that you are right.”
The rest of the time flew by and soon they headed back to the airport for their flights. Autumn left first, and Juliette left next. Juliette landed in Harrisburg International Airport. Autumn landed at Brussels. They had a quick conversation as Icari made it to the safe house. After they hung up, Icari got a phone call from Watcher.
“Hey, Icari. I hope that you had fun. I went over the files that you sent me, but I couldn’t decode them. So, I…” Watcher started to say.
There was a brief pause before a monotone girl’s voice spoke. “Hi, mommy. We need to talk.” The girl said.

I beat Junimo Kart and I got the arcade in the mail the next day. I put it in my house and went to bed but when I woke up I tried to open a chest but instead I lit a bomb and now the arcade is gone and I don’t know what to do.

It burned bright, it lit up the night, but in an instant, it is gone. Firework exploded.

Vote Here!

SONGS IN:

• Teenage Dream
  
• Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)
  
• California Gurls
  
• The One That Got Away
  

SONGS OUT:

Rank	Song	Votes Against	Percentage	Runner-Up
5th	Firework	24/50	48%	13/50 (26%)
6th	E.T.	21/44	47.7%	14/44 (31.8%)
7th	Hummingbird Heartbeat	28/39	71.8%	2: 5/39 (12.8%)
8th	Who Am I Living For?	12/21	57.1%	3/21 (14.3%)
9th	Not Like the Movies	9/20	45%	7/20 (35%)
10th	Circle the Drain	7/25	28%	6/25 (24%)
11th	Pearl	8/18	44.4%	5/18 (27.8%)
12th	Peacock	8/23	34.8%	7/23 (30.4%)

ALBUM INFO

RYM
WIKIPEDIA)
GENIUS

STREAM

APPLE MUSIC
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YOUTUBE MUSIC
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Ugh sorry, title should say "string" not "strong" but I can't seem to edit it.
Anyway! First, the winning verse from Round 7 (best 7-word lyric) is:
Leaving like a father, running like water (with 24% of the vote)
The runners up were:

• 2nd place: I've never heard silence quite this loud (17% of the votes)
• 3rd place: Your heart was glass, I dropped it (13% of the votes)
• 4th place: Living for the hope of it all (12% of the votes)

Which means the results so far are:

1. (13): You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath
2. (12): Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere
3. (11): Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life
4. (10): You made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter
5. (9): So casually cruel in the name of being honest
6. (8): Darling, I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream
7. (7) Leaving like a father, running like water

Vote for the round 8 (best 6-word lyric) winner here!
For Round 9, please comment below with a 5-word string of lyrics that you think is top tier. For example: "Hey kids! Spelling is fun!"*
As before, in the next round, I'll post a poll with top/select comments from this round, so that we can vote on a winner, along with the final winning verse from Round 6. Then I'll also ask you to comment with the best 4-word string of lyrics. We'll play this game all the way down to the best single word in any of her songs.
Finally, two brief clarifying points:

• In case anyone was wondering, let's make a blanket rule that hyphenated words count as one word, not two
• A subset of a winning verse from a prior round will be ineligible in later rounds (i.e., "careless man's careful daughter" will be ineligible for best 4-word lyric once we get there)

All that said: what's your favorite 5-word string of lyrics??
*Just for fun, I'm going to try to pick the cheesiest string of lyrics I can think of as the example in each post

[first] [prev] [next] - [wiki]
There are some deeds, some crimes and horrors even our Mother, the Universe itself, loathes beyond all. And when this is the case, neither time, nor space, nor reality itself can deny her vengeance.
Because time is a flat circle... and we all dance on its twisting disk. - kwong879, Pukan philosopher, Post Second Precursor War Reconstruction Era
For three days and three nights did the Lady Lord of Hell, the Detainee herself, in all of her fearsome matronly glory, tempt the First Biological Disciple, Daxin Freeborn, Enraged Phillip.
And for three days and three nights did he deny her.
And thus did he pass into memory and legend. - The Book of Telkan
And before I took the lives of the damned, He did appear before us and commanded my hand still.
His glowing blue form a radiant mercy. For us.
For them. - Glory, Failure, Temptation, & Redemption, Magnus Oathsworn
There is no doubt of the fact of malevolence. The very universe itself reaches out to crush what she has birthed in an eternal struggle of hatred. There are, however, some sins which even in the face of annihilation cannot be countenanced. Some acts which even this malevolent universe will not tolerate. Protect the infants at all cost, for they are survival, and to sacrifice survival for the sake of survival shall bring only suffering and doom. - Wisdom of the Traveler, Tribulations, Chapter 5 Verse 1.
In the Age of Paranoia, Humanity's leadership ordered terrible things done. Not because they knew they were necessary, but because they might become necessary. Never realizing that the existence of those terrible things would drive them to find a reason to use them. — Prof. Kuruka N'anga, University of the Sacred Bough, Terra Nuevo
While many things enrage the Lady of Hell, in fact most things seem to, certain crimes and sins earn her personal wrath. The many men who took everything from her. The idiotic creatures who thought themselves masters of everything. And those who commit cruelties upon the innocent. For she sees all of mankind's many many sins and knows very few are clean of them. Wise beings fear when cold gray eyes turn upon them.
We were desperate, and in our desperation we reached for things that will haunt me for all eternity. We could have stopped at anytime, we should have stopped before it was too late. We ignored the warnings, in our hubris we were assured that what we were doing was necessary. We were right, but it was still wrong and there is not enough time in the universe to pay for what we did. We ignored all the warnings and applauded ourselves on our success...only moments later the shouts of joy and celebration became screams of terror as the gray-eyed one illustrated why the warnings of these dark sciences should be heeded. --Words found in a blood-soaked journal at dark site research station, this was the only document recovered. Site glassed and all traces of the research were redacted.
It was misty, with a little bit of rain. The anomaly was hidden behind artificially generated cloud cover so that it looked more like an overcast sun than the strange globe of psuedo-reality it was. The starwalk station was empty, no bones, no shades, no scars from the furious fighting that had taken place after the Glassing had driven the SUDS personnel insane.
Holos flickered, some advertising restaurants or stores, others with directions, some with safety warnings, and still others with just public service holograms. The mist made the holograms flicker and fade in and out as the focused laser systems were scattered by the tiny water droplets suspended in the air.
There was a beep and the gate opened, allowing Surscee to step from the starwalk to the platform. She was wearing revealing leathers, a bustier, a short skirt with copper strips for reinforcement, tight weave fishnet stockings, and polished black leather boots with silver buckles. Around her shoulders was a gauzy sheer cape that shed the moisture even as it gleamed and sparkled.
She stopped to examine a few of the public service announcements. Some making her smile, others making her shake her head.
"You are a window to the world of my ancestors, nine thousand years gone," she said softly, touching the base of the holo. She moved to another and watched it. "We are not so different, you and I," she said, her voice full of wonder. She watched a PSA to remind everyone not to bring plants from Earth in case of seed contamination. "Your lives were full of danger that eventually became mundane," she said softly.
"That's humanity in a nut shell," the voice from behind her was low, rough, a woman's whiskey and cigarettes voice.
"Although ever changing, thus, we are," Surscee said, straightening up. She turned around and looked over the short matron in her dark charcoal gray skirt and blouse. "Greetings, fearsome one."
"Greetings to you, sorceress," the Lady Lord of Hell said. She looked Surscee up and down slowly. "Huh."
Surscee raised an eyebrow.
"Nice to see the Great Value Red Sonja look isn't just an act," the Lady Lord of Hell said, turning and walking into the mist. "Magic, science, mysticism, technology, all the same to the ignorant." Her voice faded as she walked away.
Surscee watched the short woman walk away, then turned and went back to following the path.
She was startled to discover that the vending machines were not VI driven, but just mechanical with a few holograms.
One of the vending machines that normally dispensed energy drinks and fizzybrews was ripped open, like someone had hacked on it with a blade. Surscee noted that most of the Liquid Hate was gone.
She got a lemon-lime fizzypop and followed the softly glowing holographic line of the ground until she finally came to a small park.
She stopped at the playground, leaning against a cement post, and stared at it.
The swings moved slightly back and forth at the almost unfelt breeze that stirred the mist. Droplets of water ran down the slide. The swinging rings just rocked slightly in the air current. The seesaw and the spring horses, the jungle gym and the wooden playhouse all sat quietly, damp from the mist.
Surscee closed her eyes, cocking her head slightly, listening for any echoes of happiness gone by.
"I would bring them here to play, once I had soothed their trauma to where they could interact with one another, to the point they could do more than run and scream and claw at themselves," the voice of the gray eyed matron sounded behind Surscee.
The sorceress turned, seeing the darkly clothed matron standing under a tree, barely visible in the fog, lighting a cigarette.
"I recreated it in Hell, just for them. To let them be children again, to remember," her voice said. She took a drag off her cigarette and Surscee saw the stern planes of the smaller woman's face illuminated for a moment. When she exhaled smoke, Surscee could still see her gun-metal gray eyes.
"I set fallen angels to watch over the park with sword of burning sin and tridents of icy treachery," she said, then turned and walked into the mist.
Surscee frowned as the matron vanished into the mist.
She waited a moment, but the other woman was gone.
Surscee moved on, making no sign of effort as she brought up her defenses. Her fingernails twinkled slightly as the microscopic piezoelectric systems came online. The targeting reticles and the HUD elements appeared in her vision. She brought up the passive acoustic mapping and changed the hardness of the heels of her boots so that her boots clicked with each step.
The fog muffled the acoustic map slightly, the water droplets absorbing and redirecting sound, making the map fuzzy here and there.
She passed by a vending machine and smelled cigarette smoke. The onboard systems broke it down for her, putting it up in the tiny window beyond her left hand peripheral vision. No manufacturer signature, no trace elements from other worlds. Her onboards told her that it was Old Earth brand, the tobacco lacking any genetic engineering and the cigarette containing nothing but an asbestos filter, paper, and tobacco. No flavors, no genetic smoothing, no flavor enhancements. No record in the database she always carried loaded.
She frowned slightly.
"You are unmoved by human suffering, making you suitable for this task," a tired sounding man said from just past a set of benches. He was leaning against a fountain. He had shaggy cut dark hair, a simple pair of pants and shirt without decoration, and dark circles under his eyes.
Two steps and the figure vanished.
The echolocation acoustic mapping told her that there was a solid bipedal humaniod form there for a split second but it vanished just when she got in range of it.
Surscee followed the arc of the path, curiosity filling her.
She knew if the being that had manifested as a five meter tall demon with bat wings and a whip of burning warsteel links woven with barbed wire, or the short matron with the nasty steel knife, wanted to kill her, the being simply would.
Surscee was curious what the purpose of this was.
"Enemies never rest. That's why they're called the Enemy, you blithering morons. I swear, dealing with the two of you is like dealing with particularly naive and ignorant children who are shocked, shocked I tell you, that they can't ziptie a plastic bag around their head and dance in the middle of the Interstate during rush hour," the matron's voice was cruel and full of disdain. "Of course millions are dying, that's what happens when you act like atomic weapons are no more dangerous than sparklers."
Surscee didn't bother to look around, her onboard bioware systems letting her know that the point of origin for the voice kept moving and shifting.
A trivial trick with nanites and one she had used often to confuse and harry foes.
"Your weakness disgusts me," the woman's voice hissed from between two food vending machines. "If you spent less time crying and more time fixing the system you'd be done by now, you pathetic puling weakling."
Surscee smiled slightly.
The voice reminded Surscee of her mother mocking her lessers.
There was a small basket with berries and small fruits sitting on a bench and Surscee's smile got wider. She moved over and sat down, picking up the basket and setting it on her lap.
If the being wanted her dead, she would be dead, simple as that.
The berries were blackberries, strawberries, and raspberries. Clean, sweet and tart.
After a moment the matron came walking out of the fog, opening a breast pocket to remove a pack of cigarettes and a flint-steel lighter. The woman sat down, crossing her legs at the knee and smoothing her skirt. She then lit the cigarette, the flare of the lighter lighting her face with the warmth of the flame without making the face seem any warmer.
Surscee slowly chewed a blackberry as the cigarette was lit, puffed on, and the lighter clinked shut. The pack and the lighter went back into the top pocket, the matron's fingers nimbly buttoning up the pocket.
They sat there for a long moment.
"All of that power, all your knowledge and mastery of exotic and esoteric disciplines, and here you sit eating freshly picked berries and fruit," the matron said.
"I am a simple woman who enjoys simple pleasures," Surscee said, smiling.
"I could use someone like you on my team," the matron said, exhaling smoke. "Power, the will to dominate, the means to achieve the goals I set out for you."
"An enticing offer," Surscee said carefully. She picked up strawberry and bit off the tip, chewing slowly.
"With your brother as one of my Hell Knights, you would make an excellent Hell Storm," the matron said.
This time when she exhaled the smoke was tinged with a slight tang hot freshly spilled blood and a taint of brimstone.
"Acting as the agent of the Lady Lord of Hell herself," Surscee said. She picked up a black cherry and looked over it. "Empowered, strengthened, by the Lady Lord of Hell, to punish the wicked for their sins."
The matron nodded slowly.
"With you as the judge, myself as the jury, and my brother as the executioner," Surscee said, still smiling.
"At times," the matron said. She exhaled smoke and glared at the mist that surrounded them. "Do you know what sin mankind has fallen into?"
Surscee shook her head. "Pride, perhaps? My mother often spoke of sloth and gluttony, perhaps that?"
The matron shook her head. "No. Far far worse."
"I would hear your words, fearsome one," Surscee said, making sure her voice was respectful.
"An anecdote," the matron said. She sighed. "Later, in my life, as more and more people became enamored with being ethical, more for status than to be truly ethical, philosophers and those who called themselves ethecists began posing questions, providing answers, each of the seeking to be recognized as the pinnacle of ethics and morals that would guide humanity into a Golden Age."
"That smack of wickedness," Surscee said. "Of pride and arrogance."
The matron nodded. "One question, posed by academics to students, always enraged me. Asked by academics who had never traveled beyond their ivory towers or guarded enclaves, asked to pampered students who had spent their lives dwelling in luxuries beyond imagination to the people of my youth."
The matron reached down into the mist that covered her feet, lifting up a bottle of beer and popping the cap with a talon that immediately returned to a manicured nail.
"The question, put forth, involves a situation. I will explain it thusly: You are at a village in a war torn nation. A warlord arrives with his men, intending on killing the village. The reasons do not matter. However, the warlord makes you an offer, handing you a gun with a single bullet. Shoot one person, of your choice, and he will spare you and the survivors. Kill him, and his men will kill you, and allow the village to survive. Kill none, and he will order his men to kill all the villagers, man, woman, and child, but leave you to live," the matron said.
Surscee frowned. "A terrible choice."
The matron snorted. "The academics and ethical philosophers then asked their students: What is the most moral choice?" the matron looked at Surscee. "Care to make a guess?"
Surscee thought for a long moment. "Shoot one of his men. He did not say you had to kill a villager."
The matron laughed. "A choice fitting for a Great Value Red Sonja," she laughed. She shook her head. "But, you would be wrong. You see, you make the unethical choice to take a human life."
"Then what?" Surscee asked.
"To stand aside. That you do not make a choice. The philosophical correct answer was to stand aside, that the warlord and his men make their own decisions and it is not your responsibility nor your moral failing whatever they choose to do," the matron looked out at the mist, taking a swig of her beer. "Do nothing, let the trolley kill five, because for you to decide who lives and dies is unethical."
Surscee snorted. "Choosing to make no choice is a choice in and of itself. You should always seek to do the least harm and the greatest good."
The matron nodded.
"The cowardice disgusts me," the matron said. She took another swig of her beer and then a drag from her cigarette. She exhaled smoke tinged with blood and brimstone. "I need those who will not back down, who are willing to get in the mud and the blood and the beer to get the job done."
The matron held up a red apple. "Take the apple, accept my offer. Be my Hell Storm to your brother's Hell Knight."
"Your offer humbles me," Surscee said. "It does not matter if my brother took your offer, I am Oathsworn to Lady Nakteti the Traveler. My duty is clear, it lies with my sworn liege."
"But what of your duty to your people?" the matron asked. "What of your duty to humanity?"
"I represent humanity wherever I go. Shall my actions, my decisions, lead the people's of the galaxy to believe that humanity are oath breakers? That our word, our bond, our oath, carries no meaning other than to further our own aims and goals? That we will abandon them, no matter what oaths we swear?"
The matron was silent.
"I am tempted by your offer, but I must, respectfully, refuse," Surscee said.
"Very well," the matron said. She blew on her fingertips and the apple dissolved. She stood up, taking a moment to smooth her skirt and tug the cuffs of her sleeves.
"You would have made an excellent Hell Storm," the matron said, exhaling smoke.
When it cleared, she was gone.
Surscee closed her eyes and heaved a great breath.
"I have passed the test, I hope," she said softly.
Only the dripping of water in the mist answered her.
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Hello Everyone, thanks for Reading, and thanks again for u/MelasD for creating Amelia the level zero [Hero], a universe where people operate under a system where magic is controlled akin to a videogame.
First Chapter * Next Chapter!
​
A Scale of Vengance, Part Two.
I awoke in a place I did not recognize, remembering the spell circle, and the Egg, but this space was alien, beyond anything I had seen.{Welcome! You have been chosen/volunteered for introduction to the [Guardian Spirit] program! I am your guide for this process, do you consent to continue? Saying no will have no consequence for rejection, saying yes will begin the process of integration into the program. Y/N?}
I blinked, listening to a voice made of several voices, some male, some female, blended into each other, like a choir.
I said “Yes”, not wanting to be rejected, and the Guardian not be resurrected.
{Input received! Welcome Spirit Host! You will now pick your Avatar for the Dragon Spirit, this avatar will affect how the spirit interfaces with the world around it, its potential powers, and instincts toward you, and the world around it.}
A path lit up before me, and darkened behind me, guiding me as I walked forwards into a field full of Dragons! I looked at them, all beautiful and majestic, yet each one slightly different from the next. One of the Dragons was playing with a large ball, bouncing it around on it’s nose as a game.
It addressed me in a high pitched voice.“Hello! I was the [Guardian Spirit] who watched over your city, and together with my Host, we were Carana! We had so much fun playing together, but I was tired and hungry when I was killed fighting.”
The Dragon was no bigger than I, and on all fours, so I petted her, reassuringly. “You tried, that [Hero King] is beyond what we expected, though you being hungry affected the fight? Why didn’t you eat before you fought?” I asked as she leaned into me.
The Dragon formerly known as Carana looked at me sadly “There was nothing left to eat, my host was all gone, and I had been hungry for some time.”
I squatted on my haunches “Why didn’t your host just give you more to eat before a battle?” I asked, bewildered at why she had been neglected so.
The little dragon sighed, wilting visibly “You don’t understand, we Guardian Spirits are fed by consuming our hosts. You give up part of yourself for power, and we live off of your energies.”
All of a sudden, I looked at the room full of interested Dragons in a new light. Not as someone choosing to be granted great power, but volunteering to become a meal. I backed away from the small dragon, who just looked sad before bouncing the ball back into the air, and seemingly forgetting about me.
Another dragon walked up to me “I overheard your last conversation, I can tell that you don’t want a silly, fun loving spirit as your companion. I am the oldest and dare I say wisest of us here. I specialize in Magic and Agriculture.”
I looked at the green dragon, whose eyes were old, old beyond reckoning. Yet there was a softness to it, one that made me feel full of life and power through connecting with nature.“I don’t feel like we are compatible for what needs to be done, but would you help guide me, Green Dragon in helping find who I should journey with?” I asked it, and it smiled, it’s bark like skin cracked into a smile.
“I’d be delighted! So few ask that! You are a intelligent being, young master, the one of us you choose will be fed well, I think!”
I greatly daring ruffled the leaves of its mane playfully just as another being walked into the room, one with an absolutely alien appearance, a Black skinned Insect dressed up in Yellow silks.
The Green dragon Purred under my touch exclaiming “Ah! The gods smile on us, the feast continues!”
The being walked over to us, chittering and clicking, and oddly the Green Dragon returned the noises for a minute before looking back to me.“This H’hanata [Warrior] is on the same journey as yourself, a Host candidate. The polite thing to do is to nodd like this, and let them touch your head with theirs.” The Green Dragon Bowed to the 8 foot tall insect, which bowed in return touching its feelers to the Dragon’s head. I followed, feeling the odd feathery touch of feelers upon my scalp for a second, before it lifted its head, and I followed.
More clicking followed, and while the Green dragon was occupied, another orange and blue Dragon approached me. “Hello, I am the Dragon of Temperature. I make things colder or warmer, as well as changing the states of matter. I’d be pleased to help you, and my powers are based in science, we could lead your people into a new Golden Age!”
The Dragon trotted in place, excitedly so, enough to knock off the glasses it had pinched to it’s nose. I couldn’t help but be impressed by it having hopes as well. If the Green dragon was magical and wise, this one felt full of potential and energy. I felt drawn to it, if this had happened before the war, we would have bonded for sure. But..
“Thank you, but..” I almost finished before the [Warrior] approached, and with a rapid exchange of clicks exchanged both looked at me with the Temperature Dragon shuffling its claws “I think I have a host, now, but she wishes to know if we need it, can we call on you and what dragon you bond with in return?”
A popup appeared in front of me {Friend Request, Temperature Dragon and Lumm’ta wish to ally themselves with Spirit Candidate Talio. This may result in being summoned, or allow you to summon in return for a period based on your contribution’s limit. Y/N}
I said “Yes” knowing I may need help faster than I’d wish it.{Input Received! Friend request accepted!}
The Mantid and Dragon Bowed before glowing and fusing, disappearing in a bright light together. I looked around as the Green Dragon approached me once again.“Lucky bastard, every time he sells that “Golden Age” crap, people fall all over him.” The Green dragon muttered disgustedly.
I looked at him “You sound like you don’t think he can deliver on it?” I asked it, curiously.The green dragon harrumphed “The Temperature Dragon can, but it also leads to the destruction of more worlds than any of us are responsible for. Progress for its own sake is dangerous if not managed closely.” He said, beckoning me to follow with a raised foreclaw before leading me on, toward a Black dragon.
“Go away.” The small black cinder spoke.The Green dragon booted it in it’s tail, leading to a angry Black drake lashing out, less cinder like now as I seen it’s elegant form uncurled. It looked me up and down before curling back into a ball again.“Are you deaf? Go away.” It spoke. “I don’t want to eat you.”
The green dragon spoke up. “You don’t get that choice, Cinder. It’s our Karma do so if asked. So, let’s hear it. Unless you want me to oversell your abilities?”
It huffed before looking all kinds of fake enthused “Hello! I’m the Dragon of Time! Using my power, you can revert time back to the point of us joining, literally resetting every choice in the universe regardless of how big or small allowing you to alter any action and its consequences!”
It said this, smiling all the time like it’s face was breaking, before collapsing back into a puddle of melancholy.I listened, before giving the dragon a hug, something that caused it to hiss and shake, before I let go.
“*Hissss* What the hell was that for?” It asked.
“You look like someone who has seen something bad, so yeah. That and I kind of need one myself, seeing I’m not going to leave here without being one of you dragon’s dinners.” I said, in all seriousness, kneeling in front of it’s hurt expression. Do you mind answering a question for me?
It nodded, so I asked “What’s the drawback to your power?”
The Dragon looked thoughtful, then answered “The less bonded we are, the less the efficiency between the amount of energy used to alter time.”
I asked “Does that mean your power is limited then?”
It rested its head in my lap “It means that if we don’t first bond, you lose ⅓ of yourself for each major change, and in doing so reduces our future ability to bond. This is true of most of us, that bonding affects how we digest our meals. But for me, people wish for big changes often before we bond, and it’s not long before I’m back here, or stuck without a host, and too weak to help what cause my host wanted to alter.”It looked up into my eyes “I don’t want a meal, not like that. Go with the old timer, and enjoy centuries of time.” It said waving a ebony set of claws at the green dragon. “I can only wish for that level of efficiency.”
The green dragon harrumphed “The candidate’s world is in the midst of a class 3 Void incursion, The Angel Guardian has been activated, and is seeking aid. This means the system grants a 90% reduction in the cost of our abilities for the duration of the crisis. The previous guardian had no host energy left to spend, so was defeated!” It said, swatting the former guardian Carana’s ball across the cavern, causing her to roar indignantly.The Green dragon and Black Dragon chuckled at the immature antics as Carana pouted.
I asked “So, what’s your deal, besides being mischievous?The Blue Dragon stuck it’s forked tongue out at the Green dragon before addressing the Question. “I am the Fate Dragon. My abilities can see into the future and nudge things, making outcomes both practical and impractical happen.”
“That’s different from the Time Dragon?” I asked.
“Yes!” the Blue Dragon chirped happily “Where Cinder can change what has already happened, but not see how that action can change things, I can alter what may be, but once things happen I am powerless to alter it.”
The Black Dragon Grumbled “That’s true, and seeing the outcome of things, she can also most efficiently gauge how much of a host she needs to achieve what you need. It’s why Carana never stays here long, though she already knows you won’t choose them.”
The Blue dragon nodded “My next host will arrive in 15 minutes, 12 seconds from when Yellow punts my ball back to me.”And sure enough the ball came sailing back towards them, intercepted by Blue, who chortled bouncing it along as they left.
I started to take my hand off the Time Dragon’s scaled forepaw, but found my hand growing heavier, like it didn’t wish to separate, and suddenly I knew neither did I. At the same time the Dragon’s eyes widened.
“Why Me?” It asked in a voice wavering between grief and hunger, it looking both excited and worried, as we glowed brighter together.
“We are a match, because I already have the [Judge] skill, so we won’t burn out without knowing the costs. That and even the Green dragon looked at me as a meal. You see me as more than sustenance.” I said, as the Brightness fully engulfed us as we merged.
***===***
The Green Dragon watched the pair disappear, starting their shared life. “Be well, my child. Feed gently, hurt your host as little as you can. For they will soon be part of you.” He intoned, knowing his child’s power was hard to manage, but her heart was pure despite her color and appearance.

And so many things we'll never see again
Days of lives that seem so unimportant
They seem to matter and to count much later on
Far away, away, fading distant lights
Leaving us all behind, lost in a changing world
And you know that these are the days of our lives, remember…..
Points if you know the band without googling the lyrics.
Aging hopeless romantic on Long Island trying to find true love in a sea of ghosts and fakes and bots.
Me: 49, 6 feet tall, charming, very funny, bears a resemblance to Bronson Pinchot. I work in healthcare and IT and volunteer for local cat rescue groups.
I love animals, have 5 cats and often prefer cats to people. I’m a lifetime New Yorker and grew up in Brooklyn. I might still have an accent.
I host a podcast on cats that’s growing quite nicely. If you have cats maybe I’ll even have you on as a guest!
You: younger than me, that’s no disrespect to anyone older, I just like to date people a little younger than me. Just my thing I guess.
You want to chat, get to know me, and you’re not a bot. I will know if you’re game.
You want to see about building a real relationship with me. Like an actual relationship where we meet and do fun things.
I prefer that you’re on the east coast but I’m open minded, as long as you’re from the US.
You’re consistent.
You know how to have a conversation. Meaning you say more to me than “hey.”
You’re not the type of person who ghosts. I can’t stress this point enough.
Oh, and you’re single. If you’re married and bored, no thanks.
Sound good? Reach out and say hi!

And so many things we'll never see again
Days of lives that seem so unimportant
They seem to matter and to count much later on
Far away, away, fading distant lights
Leaving us all behind, lost in a changing world
And you know that these are the days of our lives, remember…..
Points if you know the band without googling the lyrics.
Aging hopeless romantic on Long Island trying to find true love in a sea of ghosts and fakes and bots.
Me: 49, 6 feet tall, charming, very funny, bears a resemblance to Bronson Pinchot. I work in healthcare and IT and volunteer for local cat rescue groups.
I love animals, have 5 cats and often prefer cats to people. I’m a lifetime New Yorker and grew up in Brooklyn. I might still have an accent.
I host a podcast on cats that’s growing quite nicely. If you have cats maybe I’ll even have you on as a guest!
You: younger than me, that’s no disrespect to anyone older, I just like to date people a little younger than me. Just my thing I guess.
You want to chat, get to know me, and you’re not a bot. I will know if you’re game.
You want to see about building a real relationship with me. Like an actual relationship where we meet and do fun things.
I prefer that you’re on the east coast but I’m open minded, as long as you’re from the US.
You’re consistent.
You know how to have a conversation. Meaning you say more to me than “hey.”
You’re not the type of person who ghosts. I can’t stress this point enough.
Oh, and you’re single. If you’re married and bored, no thanks.
Sound good? Reach out and say hi!

And so many things we'll never see again
Days of lives that seem so unimportant
They seem to matter and to count much later on
Far away, away, fading distant lights
Leaving us all behind, lost in a changing world
And you know that these are the days of our lives, remember…..
Points if you know the band without googling the lyrics.
Aging hopeless romantic on Long Island trying to find true love in a sea of ghosts and fakes and bots.
Me: 49, 6 feet tall, charming, very funny, bears a resemblance to Bronson Pinchot. I work in healthcare and IT and volunteer for local cat rescue groups.
I love animals, have 5 cats and often prefer cats to people. I’m a lifetime New Yorker and grew up in Brooklyn. I might still have an accent.
I host a podcast on cats that’s growing quite nicely. If you have cats maybe I’ll even have you on as a guest!
You: younger than me, that’s no disrespect to anyone older, I just like to date people a little younger than me. Just my thing I guess.
You want to chat, get to know me, and you’re not a bot. I will know if you’re game.
You want to see about building a real relationship with me. Like an actual relationship where we meet and do fun things.
I prefer that you’re on the east coast but I’m open minded, as long as you’re from the US.
You’re consistent.
You know how to have a conversation. Meaning you say more to me than “hey.”
You’re not the type of person who ghosts. I can’t stress this point enough.
Oh, and you’re single. If you’re married and bored, no thanks.
Sound good? Reach out and say hi!

The title of this one intrigued me enough to give it a read, and to my complete shock /s it seems that Disney's '''progressive''' pandering in their recent output still isn't good enough for some of the people they're actively courting.
"The Little Mermaid" live action may have racial representation, changed plot points and song lyrics, but it's still problematic, sexist, and promoting violence and patriarchy, apparently.
The review in question:
 

Disney’s 1989 “The Little Mermaid” was at once a masterpiece of the brand and a somewhat cringey retelling of a very dark Hans Christian Andersen tale. The story of a mermaid who gives up her voice to be with the man of her dreams, it falls neatly into the Disney canon of plucky, curious teenage women, whose pluck and curiosity mostly end up leading them into early marriage. But it’s also a ton of fun, with a dazzling Howard Ashman/Alan Menken score, an iconic villain in Ursula whose look was inspired by the drag queen Divine and a hilariously menacing sequence about cooking fish.
Disney’s had decades to think about how to update “The Little Mermaid” for new generations of viewers. Which makes the dour, overlong, dimly-lit and still pretty sexist product they’ve just released completely baffling.
They’ve jettisoned the fish song, “Les Poissons,” purportedly deeming it too cartoonish (what?) but given a dull musical number to Prince Eric (Jonah Hauer-King). They’ve obscured the great Melissa McCarthy, playing Ursula, in a murk of bottom-of-the-ocean “natural light.” And they’ve retained the central plot, which confers happy-ending approval on a young woman making bodily-harming sacrifices in order to get the guy. Seriously?
I can report that the children in my small-town movie theater were checked-out at best. More than one kid was wandering among the aisles by the time we passed the 90-minute mark of the 135-minute affair, which begs the question: Who, exactly, is this movie for? Why does it exist?
This latest chapter in Disney’s never-ending quest to impose all of its hits on us again, in live-action format, is a profound miscalculation on almost every level, especially about how to revisit a beloved animated property that boasts some pretty problematic themes.
This feels lousy to say, because I was rooting for a huge success to follow the noxious backlash to the trailer last year: Some people apparently couldn’t handle the audacity of reinventing a cartoon character as a Black actress. But star Halle Bailey, in the role of Ariel, has nothing to apologize for: She’s the best thing about this movie. Unfortunately, that’s faint praise.
A lot of ink and pixels have testified to the value of Black children and their moms being able to see themselves in a Disney heroine, and that’s a powerfully admirable goal – as well as a long-overdue one, given the brand’s still overwhelmingly White majority of characters.
Unfortunately, director Rob Marshall’s approach sets a tone of violence at the beginning, rather than inspiration. The film kicks off with a sequence in which the crew of Prince Eric’s trade ship lean and leer over the edge, throwing harpoons at something in the water. A whale? A mermaid? It’s never quite clear, but the bloodlust certainly is. I can’t believe the kids in my screening had imagined a movie called “The Little Mermaid” beginning this way. Yikes.
Then there’s the running time: Two hours and fifteen minutes. The original was an hour twenty-three. The time expansion is such a comically bad decision, I still can’t get my head around it. Nothing little kids like more than sitting still for over two hours! Most recent Disney remakes have kept it at least under the two-hour mark, with the exception of 2017’s “Beauty and the Beast” and 2021’s “Cruella,” both of which were, at least, livelier than this one.
Everywhere you look, a detail about the movie has been slightly altered, but most end up being empty gestures rather than meaningful updates. For example, King Triton (Javier Bardem, who mostly looks bored) still has a bunch of adoring daughters who follow his every command, except now they’re a rainbow of ethnic diversity. So what’s the message here: diversity is good as long as patriarchy remains intact?
When Bailey’s Ariel gives up her voice in exchange for a human body, with three days to kiss the prince, she’s also given amnesia about the kiss part – which handily removes the fun from the original film of having her be an active participant in trying to get the smooch. And in this iteration of Ursula’s show-stopping number “Poor Unfortunate Souls,” they’ve removed the lines in which she smacks down Ariel’s doubts about losing her voice: “The men up there don’t like a lot of blabber. They think a girl who gossips is a bore. Come on, they’re not all that impressed with conversation. True gentlemen avoid it when they can! But they dote and swoon and fawn on a lady who’s withdrawn, it’s she who holds her tongue who gets a man!”
As Alex Abad-Santos of Vox tweeted, it’s “quite literally the best part of the entire song that crystallizes cynical Ursula’s worldview and, at the same time, shows us how she’s tricking Ariel.” Menken has said the change was made because the lines “might make young girls somehow feel that they shouldn’t speak out of turn,” which feels fairly patronizing; in my experience, kids are very good at knowing not to take a cartoon villain’s advice at face value.
That’s gone, but Lin-Manuel Miranda has added some new music, notably a rap song for Awkwafina as the seagull Scuttle, a number which is brief but so tonally different it brings the scene to a screeching halt. If there’s one unifying quality to all of these tweaks, it’s that they aren’t going to convince any of the 1989 movie’s fans that this one is worth their time or money.
More broadly, Disney’s painted the movie with the broad brush of corporate studios’ vision for What We Think Will Put Butts in Seats, which consists mostly of gloomy, under-lighted visuals (which audiences are, in reality, very tired of) and extensive action scenes. The 11th-hour standoff in which McCarthy’s Ursula grows to Godzilla proportions is so very dark here that you can barely see her, which begs the question of how much bad CGI they’re trying to cover up.
As Hollywood continues to wring its hands about the decline of moviegoing, “The Little Mermaid” doesn’t feel like it’s going to be an asset in that fight – let alone inspire many repeat viewings. (I imagine any parent who’s known the earworm of “Let It Go” from “Frozen” will know this is damning indeed.) Maybe a cool reception will inspire a little more introspection for Disney before next spring’s release of the next remake: “Snow White.” What could go wrong?

 
I feel like I've seen a few examples of this in recent times, like they're almost close to getting it (beyond the obvious flaws like the crappy CG) but they're ideological tunnel vision is preventing them from seeing the forest for the trees, so to speak.
And meanwhile we continue to be baffled as to why Disney and so many others are pandering to this crowd when they will never be satisfied...