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Choose your ingredients and mix a Cocktail for you and your friends.
Hier findet ihr nützliches Zubehör für Rollenspiele.
Einfach einen Würfel auswählen und das Ergebnis erscheint im Chat :)
The next time you want to go shopping on Amazon, you could do it with this link:
Amazon for Belletristicans
(Only works for amazon.de at the moment)
... because if you get to Amazon via Bellatristica, we get up to 10% of the value of your shopping cart, without making it cost more.
The same thing works from everywhere on Belle, no matter if it's a book recommendation in our Blog or an Amazon link in a profile.
Everything we earn this way, will be added to Belletristia's development budget.
Thank you very, very much! :)
- Ben & Sebastian
The web page was a mixture of to many people in the crowd, and to
much isolation. She remembered the times she shared with other
classmates, among those she thought were her friends and those she
thought were her enemies. Yet now as the time goes by, she finds herself
melting on the web. Her life like bits of binary, scattered about on
the screen; a decompression of totality. Yet in her mind was a lost
girl, searching for mom in the darkness of the childhood play room. Even
now as night terrors melt away into the night, there is that permanent
feeling of silence. A silence much louder than the loudest of
The silence inside her mind.
She had finished the main idea of her local page. Combined with remote viewing, she would host various images she had found by satellite. The images she remote viewed always seemed to come from Africa. And yet she herself held no special connection to the region. She was just a girl into other girls in Boston Clogs, and getting their heads chopped off on a guillotine. Yet now as her magnets begin to pulsate, she finds herself mostly baking chocolate bread. Now with more cocoa powder, she had just finished making herself a Chinese, Indian, and Mexican fusion dinner. She purchased herself some menthol cigarettes.
She had herself a smoke.
Her parents threatened to cut her off her insurance if she kept smoking. Yet when she went to the agency the concept of her smoking was not even brought up. Just another aspect of her parents being controlling. Just another way for them to keep her from being able to cope with her past, as distant and remote as it was. As distant and remote as her ability to concentrate. She couldn't even concentrate for long on writing experiments, a mixture of painful memories and untreated ADD. She refused to use the current new lingo being merged with ADHD. She refused to be put under a label, as she spent most her life fighting one.
Yet now her fighting spirit fades.
She becomes a shadow.
She browsed to classmate reunion websites, partially out of some petty sense of wanting to meet with her own high school crowded. She wanted to write about childhood, and yet found there were parts of her own childhood that felt missing and out of place, as if she remembered things out of order.
Life of lust.
And in a suicide letter to herself, the one she wore she'd never write, the last letter before the end of her life.
Midnight starlight, twinkling stars, multiple sunlights. Suburban sprawl lights.
I've never rode a bike in the snow. Indeed, I have only rode one many moons ago. Those memories fade and melt away, like rain asked to come again another day. In my days of snow fall, in my days of snow fall snowflakes fall into the pavement melting in the gradually warmth losing ground. Shifting leaves, torn weaves of the Earth. How they wither in the snow light. Goodnight daylight, goodnight morning light. Goodnight warm months. Come again soon, as you leave for many moons. As I rest forever in bed.
For me I seek the morrow eve, yet I wait on my couch waiting waiting for my slumber. In the hybrid sprawl of sprawling suburban lights, holographic advertisements. Distractions from the snow, distractions from a world always night. I want to melt away from this world of mine. In the world of city lights, I seek the quietness of my mind. Unwind, rewind. Watch as my own reality distorts, and I reflect on past and future. Or even the Past Future, or the Future's Past.
Avast like a sailor in the world of city seas, as I scratch and wilt from my fleas in my hair. Starlight of my mind, conflicts with natural starlight. Fast food holographic covering the sky as artificial grains of sand. To cold a month for Birkenstock sandals barefoot, but one for clogs with socks, under wool lined jeans. Watch as I drown in a book of forty thieves. Or vape vapes vaping vapes. For my life is only now, not months ago. Watch as I wait the hours, before I must decide to go.
I've dreamed dreamed, I've dreamed night terrors. I've had parents and friends like holy terrors. But for now I am alone, and only have myself. I suppose you may want a dialogue story, yet why talk to yourself. Cliches limitless. I'm uncertain why I would want to ride a bike, I've never rode since I was merely a tike. I was merely a tike on a bike. Before you laugh, keep in mind I always hated heights. My mom kisses my broken knees, and gives good nights. Goodnight memories, fading light city lights. Goodnight everything in this world, as I say goodnight.
Every day I live like it's my last.
Avast across the seas of infinite misery, for my life has always been a test. Of what test, I know not. I may have once known, but since then I forgot. Oublier, I am Oubliette. And this is yet another day, my creeping crawling final story. I wait the hours, I completely let myself go. I wait the snowflakes fall, and I watch them merge in all the merged snow.
At times I wish I were in the past futures, futures of the yesteryear. Yet as I drink my final beer, I imagine that there was probably as reason said futures never come true. I've leave said reason to your imagination, while I indulge in my bed to my final indulging masturbation. Masturbation to severed things, while I read the pages of fourty thieves. I seek these final pages, or any book I can choose to concentrate. Not focus on the will to masturbate to princesses losing their heads, placed on sticks.
In a world far beyond the fall of falling snowflakes. Every day I plot my own non existence, there are things that keep me going. Things outside of my control, for I exist in my own constant present. Not past futures, or speculations of what I will do, for what I will do is always shot down by those who wish to pin me down, and become like an unwanted button on their aging shirts since retired and tossed into the garbage dump.
I want to have things to hump. I like dark haired women, with a lovely rump. Yet for me my mind always goes to severed heads, and their lovely stumps. Some my speculate on desires of for self-destruction, but it has always been since my dreams of alien abduction. Impaled girls, impaled lives.
Come to the darkness...
Where one dines in their wives. The darkness of my meadow of gold, the meadow of the false promised life.
A life of non start.
My non life.
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