# I am the Watcher. I am your guide through this vast new twtiverse.
#
# Usage:
# https://watcher.sour.is/api/plain/users View list of users and latest twt date.
# https://watcher.sour.is/api/plain/twt View all twts.
# https://watcher.sour.is/api/plain/mentions?uri=:uri View all mentions for uri.
# https://watcher.sour.is/api/plain/conv/:hash View all twts for a conversation subject.
#
# Options:
# uri Filter to show a specific users twts.
# offset Start index for quey.
# limit Count of items to return (going back in time).
#
# twt range = 1 3418
# self = https://watcher.sour.is?uri=https://www.synkretie.net/twtxt&offset=1018
# next = https://watcher.sour.is?uri=https://www.synkretie.net/twtxt&offset=1118
# prev = https://watcher.sour.is?uri=https://www.synkretie.net/twtxt&offset=918
Both their hair stands on end: where they touch, sparks fly between their skins↵They dare not embrace for fear of lightning
The search for Earth's oldest cloud continues↵Is it a mountaintop hermit in the Andes, or an ancient cave dweller that's never seen the sun?
as you find out more about each other's past:↵a soulmate! yay! -> separated at birth? spooky -> holy shit fuck you past me for pulling that
upload yourself twice, then erase all memories of it↵a few years later you meet the other: you have finally found your soulmate↵or have you?
He takes the magnets and does something complicated looking.↵"There, I tied their field lines into a knot" as they orbit his hands.
After the apocalypse, the four horsemen had to downsize and switch to cockroaches as mounts. Maybe they should've been less thorough.
To craft a storm golem, hunt down a tornado and feed it a Name of God. You'll later find it floating in the center of a toroidal cloud.
Those who have seen the witch of the coral reef say that kelp grows on her teeth and her tongue is a moray that will eat your dive buddy.
The mechanical storyteller whirrs, clicks, spits out a slip of paper: "animal made of gravity"↵I envision a star cluster and start typing.
"semantic contaminant (99B). corrosive, infectious. keep quoted at all times. professional use only.
The sea has become impatient, doesn't wait for its level to rise but makes bold raids inland, packs of waves have been spotted hunting deer
"And what is this?"↵"The Critic's key, a skeleton key to lay open all stories. You probably won't like its results, best not to use it"
Lost your direction in life?↵Soul searching wouldn't help?↵Call Ashcrombe, Private Eye & Certified Guru, and we'll find your way in no time!
"Zggt, making the continents match up in shape was a masterstroke! Their exobiology, it's all screwy from those plate tectonics ideas!"
While we puzzle together Earth's fake history and struggle with the Fermi paradox, they watch from afar and howl with inaudible laughter.
It is a running gag among the civilizations of Earth to leave behind a pristine planet after each singularity, complete with fossils.
The planets were in on the conspiracy but Moon and our satellites were not, bless them. But even their light vanished within seconds.
Like one of those moments when everybody in the room stops talking, sun and stars stopped shining for a minute. Left the sky perfectly dark.
Mirror birds swarm around him and sometimes, their wings reflect a glimpse of the center, creating an incongruous dance of body parts
In the evening, acolytes bring empty pages, unformed clay and caged parrots. In the morning, they carry away books, sculptures and songs.
A city arranged like a dreamcatcher: The citizens' dreams wander into the center at night, come down with the morning dew and are collected.
The captain wears a cloak of iridescent feathers, a patch covers her third eye, nightmares waiting for landfall whinny in the ship's belly
The space pirates of Inner Space enter your dreams, make off with your shiny ideas, sail conceptual relationships into raids on faerieland
Inside, you wear a paper mask fashioned from your story. Upon leaving, you exchange it for that of someone who left before you, as souvenir.
An anonymous writers' club where to be let in, you have to come up with a story the bouncers like (they're unusually bookish for bouncers)
Another tree through whose crown you see an ancient sky: more and brighter stars, a second moon, an unfamiliar planet, could it be Phaeton?
A golden tree throwing a reverse shadow, amplifying the moon's pale light to daylight as it passes through the leaves
Earth's dynamo has strengthened greatly, magnetic storms disable our grids, dark spots move across oceans that throw great arcs of water
You stepped through a hidden door and ended up behind the firmament: The stars are below you but loom in negative distances, your head hurts
Also lost: the unprintable and undrawable Not-A-Letter, now only seen spontaneously arising in nature (if anybody could recognize it)
█: another lost letter↵It originally contained all possible letters but was banned after lazy writers used it to write whole novels
A lost letter looking superficially like an o, but actually an endless stairwell of ink viewed from the top↵Don't walk down unprepared
human shaped nebula maids sing to lonely miners over their suits' comms↵oh handsome, why not shed that suit and become one with the cosmos
you can eat one and it will not sate, but the taste lingers and the memory stays fresh
mathematical theorems are vacuum fruit: pure structure and form around nothing
Lesser materials will crumble mid-spell and ruin the page, while wandwood will often apply the spell being written to the page under it.
Quills used for spell books must withstand strong magical currents, but also be magically inert unlike wandwood.
room three: living room, most people allowed here↵room five: bedroom, only trusted friends↵room seven: yours alone, reality escape pod
biomimetic snail shell architecture that caters to introverts through ever smaller and quieter rooms
Just a few posts, expertly placed, rend the community's heart and it collapses.↵Call us now and we'll put the gore in egregore.
a meadow of candles burns this night, caressed by the wind, attracts moths that pollinate it, sparks in their fur, flames in their bellies
The Internet is left in shards. One of the last copies of the Archive is in an undisclosed location, accessible only through moonbounce.
Your mission: truck the disk containing the alien transmission to the forgotten supercomputer, found in an incomplete copy of archive․org
Most of the Internet has fallen. The monks of the Utah Datacenter could help your search, but they only spin up their irons in emergencies.
You have one especially secret name: The people of a village you visit only in your dreams have given it to you. It means "traveller".
and scream↵scream in the face of the merciless abyss reality sheltered you from↵scream out your lungs, you don't need them anymore↵not here
Sick of being cute, she slew the king and took his throne. Wears his skin around her shoulders, bathes in blood. But we still adore her.
sever the umbilical cord connecting you to reality↵emerge from its womb into what is outside↵behold what you've only known as muffled sounds
In the war, he stepped on a semantic mine that shredded his connection to reality. Whoever his family were before, nobody knows anymore.
To get data in and out of fairyland, find some pixies and make them listen to a modem's chirps. They have a perfect memory for bird sounds.
Biologie ist Chemie durch Wollen!
This one punk was so horny and drunk that he actually did fuck the system and got it pregnant↵In case you wonder why things are weird now
Even your cities have something of that. Between all these dead pillars, there is still a kind of forestness. We could almost feel at home.
an anagrammatical book that makes sense even if its pages have been shuffled
Forest, fortress, it's all the same to us. Every tree is a watchtower, our keep the heart. We've withstood sieges longer than your history.
When it dies to mark the end of this age, around it, the ground will spawn a ring of new ones. We will build cities and fortresses on them.
Atlantis also built a tower, but ran out of stone. They quarried the foundation for more and one day, the spire broke off and floated away.
A slow heartbeat animates the streets, barely perceptible. As the last inhabitant leaves, the city yawns, stretches, and goes the other way.
The city is dying - they think. But the fewer humans around, the more alive the streets. At night, freed houses often change places.
By the end of the third age, they have reinvented uploading and are in the process of vanishing into an even higher sphere.
The first age ends with the last human to be uploaded.↵The second ends with the last upload to forget that meatspace ever existed.
He's arrived at Jupiter but his hyperjet only hurts the locals, sentient cloud eddies.↵So he goes native: seeds the clouds with his ashes.
Technology now not only supports viruses, but fungi: The bitrot chews up all your data, the more specialized maildew grows on forgotten spam
Ygmu the world-mushroom looms in the distance, its cap covered in forest. Exposed mycelium tickles your feet, the spores make you feel giddy
Posthuman hermeneutics analyses corpora whole, archives saved from bitrot by valiant scrapers document the then-nascent hiveminds' origins
Mythologos:↵(n) appeal to narrative↵(n) appeal of narrative↵(n) the Word as told↵(n) narrative principle underlying history and future
Mythodology (n): the study of the structure of myths, their applications and shortcomings, how to craft, de- and employ them
you pet the centipede and it undulates blissfully, turns around, clasps its legs around your arm and nibbles your fingertips in affection
dance on his grave / to wake him up (chorus: we need him [stomp])↵should morning come / we will not stop (chorus: we need him [stomp])
Just consider: as long as whoever is rubberhosing you doesn't figure out how to trigger it, you can honestly say you don't know the password
Get yourself an alternate personality to store your passwords in, triggered by the view of your login screen or your sigil hidden therein
We mastered time travel, mapped the possible routes and found them to correspond to an origami pattern. It seems we live on a paper ship.
Nobody will ever know the artifact's powers: It gets itself stolen every time someone tries to use it and sometimes just because it's bored.
"Pillar of creation, wall of creation really. Hitch a ride on its winds, sail down right to the core. Only hard part is getting up again."
Takes another swig, drawls: "Oh man, the Red Spot's storm nymphs. They're something else. Did you know it extends way down into the core?"
He's sailed the layered seas of Jupiter, yes, all seven of them. From the top of the clouds down to the hailstorms of the hydrogen ocean.
Recently, an isolationist cult has been gaining power up there. Extremely concerning, but what can we do? Even our planes are gone.
While we can't trade with the Alef, we stay in touch over old telescopes converted into giant semaphores. Our storm warnings come from them.
Two hundred years ago, the war severed the space elevator and rockets were lost. Some stranded at the top survived and founded Aloof City.
Grow leather from lab cultivated samples of your own skin, tailor clothes from it, wear a second face on the back of your head
Eternal September ends when the Internet achieves near 100% penetration. Perpetual growth shock dissipates and time starts again.
Unimpressed by mere physical impossibility, the spiders built their hive to spec and gave it octagonal honeycombs. Rather disturbed the bees
Smoke clouds acquire names like rider and bird, helicopters visit the still intact (only tilted) tip, people still work in the lower levels.
The tower has been collapsing, but really slowly: one floor per day, debris flying only a little faster, slow enough to hold picnics on it.
They play music to the city's traffic jams during day and redistribute its wealth at night, integral to the vital balance of law and chaos.
Next to the police, the unlaw enforcement has its seat, a building that seems to overgrow its neighbours like ivy. Officers fly in and out.
The French counter-revolution has its best surgeons put the heads back on the bodies, in fact you'll get an extra head if you ask nicely.
Speak into this little box here to start the engine. If your idea is any good, its spark should ignite the fuel-soul mixture and off you go.
"that is some really nice thunder here" he says, "early harvest, grown under an evening sun, rocky start, smooth finish, admirable stamina,
There's a chlorophyllic vampire bat that is symbiotic with trees: During day, its green wings feed the tree, at night it detaches and hunts.
Earth's core is under us, Fire's core over us. Sea's and Air's are hidden, inhospitable howling maelstroms only accessible through theory.
The day advances and the ghostly structure changes shape, grows and loses pillars, shows different aisles, caresses the frescos on the walls
The light beams fall through the cathedral's windows onto cleverly placed mirrors and form a second cathedral out of light and shadow.
An influential Latin dictionary once published a revised edition and broke 30% of spells. This led to wizards' adoption of versioned Latin.
The reason you use dead languages for magic is that they don't move. Spells in living languages spoil within years due to semantic drift.
Words fall to the ground behind you as you speak, every night the sidewalks are full of words and every morning, street sweepers clean up
Your pet flame runs up to you enthusiastically as you return home, along your arms, under your clothes [you smell hot breath and burnt hair]
A house made only of sound: floor boards creaking, a door closing, the hum of a fridge↵Close your eyes and you'll even hear the mice
Night's little sister, it devours, transforms. But also leaves behind myriad transient and beautiful dreams, one in every dew droplet.
What we now call the Shadow Sea follows the Moon across Earth's surface like a lost dog, in a tide that travels both oceans and continents.