DoomDoomDoom's forum posts

#1 Posted by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

@jezer: 4-6 are widely referred to as paradoxes. Why do you say they are not?

#2 Posted by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

41

#3 Edited by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

Tomm Coker, I only know of one issue he's on but I really dug his style.

#4 Posted by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

It's all so clear now, it's all for mother Russia.

#5 Edited by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

Speed!

Gas or Diesel?

#6 Posted by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

Crazy Jane has multiple personality disorder.

#7 Posted by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

@dernman: When I was taking philosophy courses there was always some head in the back who would bring up the paradox of the stone and sit back all smug like he just won life. Irritating.

#8 Posted by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

@force_echo: relieved to hear that 4 won't be set in the Mojave.

#9 Posted by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

@m3th said:

@doomdoomdoom: I already said tHe difference is one is tHe cup Half FULL wHile tHe otHer is tHe cup Half EMPTY. BotH are impossible to put a value on tHem number wise.

One is impossible to put a value to it because it is too special. THe otHer is impossible to put a value to it because it is meaningless.

But I do not want to go back and fortH witH tHis so yeaH.

-ABstract4$$#073-

Lol.

#10 Posted by DoomDoomDoom (4212 posts) - - Show Bio

Midnight revivalists twisted into shape. Strung out on air and the dead mix of burnt things it carries. Spent and spent they dream of dilapidated cities turned jungles in pale heat. They toss back their hair and touch memories of slow days forgotten. One among them rises. Scrambling. Maddening. Defeated. One among them settles down.

The jungles unfold into black ink gardens of weight. Sticky with hesitation they forge old paths through the soft middle. Hacked and folded it gives and widened eyes fall on the gods of nothing.Chirps cut from the beaks of birds yet born fall out of twig caves shattering the landscape.

Their minds collectively perform flop-house pounces at unlit windows in hopes of freedom. Bonded, they land in the gutters of crooked pyramid schemes and the laps of broken whores. Faultless, they will say. Circumstantial, they soon cry. Boredom, they call out. Reasoning avalanches from the pink caves out past filthy stalactites and into the void. Their minds turn on them, and they, turn on their selves.

Endless loops blown out and deflated. No forests but the trash heaps. No oceans but the cesspools. Dilated and dismembered they tremble like a few before. They grasp at childhood stories, scrape the bottom, scrounge for more. It is empty. Uprooted, all images slip and wash off the eye. Light ceases to refract. It all goes dark.