💾 Archived View for jacob.e-worm.club captured on 2022-07-16 at 13:24:28. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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⬅️ Previous capture (2021-11-30)
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I put together this little piece I call "Blurred World" as a new background for this site. I've been trying to figure out some CSS to make things look better, but honestly the chaos is kinda growing on me. I think I will stick with the freaky, Jodi-esque aesthetic and keep things moving along.
Days go by and I barely feel like I'm me anymore. Sometimes it seems like everything that has come before is a lie and all that lies ahead is just an illusion. Why do I do what I do? Because there is nothing else. HGC beckons me, it was a joke at first but now... I'm not even sure if I'm fooling myself anymore.
I will leave you with some poetry generated by an AI. It asked me to describe a sound associated with the word diameter...
All that is square is not smooth spheroid,
smooth spheroid, by all account is circular.
Solid, subjacent, smooth spheroid.
Never forget the discoid and roundish smooth spheroid.
I saw the the area geographical region of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the zone.
Does the zone make you shiver?
does it?
The strobile that's really big,
Above all others is the pinecone.
Crack.
Why is it so big?
This poem came out to critical acclaim:
"I will never forget discoid and roundish smooth spheroid thanks to the vivid imagery created by this author."
- The Daily Tale
"' Cone' is a topic far too neglected in modern poetry. I'm so glad -Some AI chose to tackle it."
- Zob Gloop
I agree, modern poets really don't talk about cone enough.
8.3.21
32 kb is not a lot of space. It seems that things get quite a bit smaller when you take out all of the color. Perhaps that is why grey is so often the color of sadness, so that the problems that plague us can decrease in size.
IMG-9591_modded.jpg
teehee funny people turn to shapes
7.27.21
I have finally landed
the air is thick with the soil of the earth as it fills my nostrils. The back and forth shuffling of bugs runs through my ears. My eyes are darkened by the bitter blackness of the underbelly and I feel only the mish-mash of loose ground as I wriggle along.
I am become worm.
7.25.21