Words of the Constant
Someone could trip and break their neck. Maybe it will be me.
Someone could trip and break their neck. Maybe it will be me.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Walter is getting serious with his slingshotting.
Ah, to be so simple.
An empty bag of hunger.
An empty bag of hunger.
It is mindlessly chasing after rocks.
It certainly didn't help the original owner.
The slurtles pop out when they outgrow it.
It shimmers with slimy anticipation.
Pieces of broken dreams.
Hello there, little one.
Are you empty inside?
Dream of a better place.
A black hole from which seeds never return.
Another life cut short.
It smells like tiny fear.
Meat, turned dry and delicious.
Death will be a blessing.
I remember fun.
The cold keeps it.
It has potential.
That one has a larger shell.
We nourish the plants' soil with the decomposed husks of their ocean cousins.
It has the stench of death... and yet it brings life.
It's decomposing nicely.
It's finished now.
I should put it out of its misery.
They who wield it shall become the destroyer of worlds.
To cut and slash...
Such a brutal weapon...
It seems a tad dramatic.
Such terrible destructive power...
To fend off the ravages of decay... for my food at least.
Full of more vitality than I'm used to.
It's smell is good for keeping people at a distance.
For rubbing into wounds.
Not as sweet as Abigail.
We will meet again some day.