Bodies Should Have Crash Logs. Why The Fuck Did That Just Happen.

Flickering lights trace the edge of sight, A city alive while the mind strains in the quiet. Circuits hum beneath the skin, sleepless whispering, In the hollow hours where neon breathes like a heartbeat.

Eyes reflect the dance of fractured light, Insomnia's rhythm winding tighter, an endless tether. In the haze, thoughts unravel, coded in static, A mind split, part flesh, part data stream, lost in transit.

Throbbing signals drift through empty skies, Dreams corrupted, overwritten with binary ghosts. Awake but somewhere deeper, past even the body's reach, Chasing some solace hidden in the glow, forever elusive.

And as dawn breaks over glass and steel, The heart remains untouched, pulsing faintly, A quiet signal, lost beneath layers of code. Still tethered to life, but only barely.

This made my brain do a thing, maybe not quite the exact right vibe tho, but thing:

Their mechs stand silent, ribs full of rust, veins dry of ammo, but hearts still clench shut fists. No signal comes—only the snow of static, a thousand miles wide and lifeless in their ears. Still they tune in, every morning, every dusk, fingers hovering over keys like prayer beads, hoping the dead might speak again.

Their eyes do not blink. Not from habit. Not from fear. But because the sky might lie, and if the enemy comes again —they must see first. Though no enemy has come in months. Though the wars have moved elsewhere, growing fat on new blood.

Their screens glow soft with emptiness. No heat signatures. No movement. Only the ghost-trail of a protocol that ended before they knew it had begun.

They count rations not in calories, but to pass the days. Each crunch of dried protein is another line in a gospel they were never meant to finish.

Some still sharpen the edges of torn plating. Not to fix. To fight. If the time comes. If fists and teeth must carry what missiles no longer can.

There is no manual for this. No chain of command for being the last. For waking up to silence and suiting up anyway.

Their pulses are not synced to clocks anymore. Only to memory. Only to the echo of orders that will never return.

And they cannot die. They’ve tried. The fail safes will not allow it. Cryo fails. Self-destruct jams. Even the hull breach only kissed skin, as if death itself had forgotten their names.

And they cannot live. Not here, not like this. Not when breath becomes habit, and hope for a glitch in the system.So they wait. Tuned in. Booted up. Eyes forward. Hands ready. Like ghosts in steel graves that never learned how to stop being soldiers.

pilots who no longer receive orders

pilots who tune into their commanding officer’s frequency every day, but only hear static

pilots who watch their screens for any sign of enemy movement even though the enemies have moved on to bigger battles

pilots who ran out of ammunition months ago but are still ready to fight with their bare hands

pilots who cannot follow protocol because there is no protocol for this

pilots who cannot die

pilots who cannot live

reblog to thank ur mutuals for providing enrichment to ur enclosure

casual survey: reblog if you want to kiss a girl right now

If you want a better future, you have to accept this means not tolerating those who bring us backwards.

We don't get to fancy sci-fi future and living across planets and all of these wonderful things by letting Nazis, a relic of the past we should be ashamed and horrified of, have a seat at the table.

Bigotry is regressive and there is always a next target, and they will always tear down all progress. Trans rights being ripped away and medical research being shunted back to the dark ages, people being sent to death camps, education being under attack.

These are all things that nose dive us into a new dark age of suffering, and everyone will suffer, if your on Tumblr you aren't one of those wealthy enough to buy a freedom pass to get to exist or do what you want outside of their regime.

You want your dream cool sci-fi future? Then build it by burying anyone who would send us plummeting back into our worst periods of history.

I’m hoping that this is as “angry” as I’ll get with a comic, but given how the world is shaping up politically at the moment, I fear that might not be the case.

It’s been incredibly eye opening to witness the degree to which some people I know are willing to bury their heads in the sand in order to avoid the reality of the awful things that are happening around them.  Awful things that they were told were going to happen.

In America, people are being black bagged and shipped off to El Salvador without due process to be held indefinitely in prisons, with the current administration now making social media posts cruelly boasting that they’ll never return. 

Make no mistake, if people are being kidnapped by the government, given no due process, and are shipped to a foreign nation to be held in prison with no intention to give them any legal recourse, we need to call these prisons what they are:

They are death camps.

The United States of America is rounding up “undesirables” and sending them to death camps. 

There are people in this country that voted for this.  No matter how nice they otherwise seem or claim to be, these people are evil to the core. 

There are also people who didn’t vote for this, but do provide social validation and acceptance to those who did.

If you are someone who thinks you’re against fascism, but you also accept fascists in your life, you are a fascist. 

There can be no acceptance of intolerance.  In the comic, the person I’m lampooning is the “Fake Trans Ally”, but you can swap out “trans” for any other group of marginalized people.  Frankly, just call this person “The Fake Ally.”

If you’re someone reading this and feel attacked because I’m calling you a fake ally, it’s time to do some soul searching.  When the history books are written about this period of American history, are you going to be someone who was unambiguously against hatred, or were you someone that treated hate as acceptable? 

Were you someone that invited hatred into your home?

Were you someone that shared a meal with hatred?

Were you someone that allowed hatred a safe haven?

If you’re someone that does that, you yourself are hateful. 

When you accept hate, you do so at the expense of those who are the target of that hatred.

Be better, our lives depend on it.

Broken wings, cracked bone exposed between feathers, dripping a neon pallet across dirty sidewalks.

Beauty painted by the glow, spilling from cracks in their masks.

With hesitant steps do angels weep.

Sometimes I get hit with this awful wave of imposter syndrome.

Like i’m just playing pretend at being a woman, like someone’s going to catch me mid-step and say, “Hey, that’s not yours.” And yet… all it takes is one glance at how I exist, how I move through the world, to remember just how far I am from being a cis man. Honestly? There’s an ocean between us.

Even before I knew the word egg, I was already choosing softness over pride, connection over conquest. My body might’ve been a disguise, but my heart never played along. I’ve been a guy, sure—but a man? No. Never. Not once in a way that fit. Not in a way that felt real.

And yet… I still walk into the men’s bathroom, holding my breath like it’ll make me invisible. I go shopping, and the staff guides me like a lost little sir, nudging me back to the “right” section even as my eyes trail towards the dresses, the soft fabrics, the cute cuts that make me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could be her.

Phones are the worst. Always "Sir." Rarely “Ma’am.” Like my voice forgot it was allowed to speak.

Even when my trans friends hold my hands in theirs and say, “You’re already a girl,”—even when girls I crush on giggle and tell me I sound adorable—I still feel like I’m standing on the edge of a mirror, watching someone I wish I could be wave at me from the other side.

It’s disheartening. It makes me want to shrink away some days, curl into my hoodie and vanish. But deep down, I know I’m getting there. Bit by bit, my body is starting to listen to the woman I’ve always been. She’s been whispering all along—I just didn’t know how to hear her.

So if you're feeling like this too—like you're waiting for your reflection to finally say “welcome home”—just know: you’re not alone. It takes time. Goddess, it takes so much time. But you’ll get there. We’ll get there.

And maybe one day, a girl with bright eyes and mischievous hands will pull me aside in the dressing room, hold up a dress against my hips, and say, “This one’s you.”

And I’ll believe her.

Patlabor 2

1993

Like or reblog if you're a Fleshlight for transgirls <3

Oh, let me rephrase

Reblog if you're a willingly Fleshlight for tgirls ^×^ everyone will be filled with girl cum, just a question of if you're going to be obedient about it~

Souls alighting to afterlife, digital pulses in the optics.

Ghostly howls, echoing through repository halls.

Spirits bound, pulling the cart of progress forward.

Synthetic sleep, augmented to perform.

Building a new god for the machine.