# 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=1118
# next = https://watcher.sour.is?uri=https://www.synkretie.net/twtxt&offset=1218
# prev = https://watcher.sour.is?uri=https://www.synkretie.net/twtxt&offset=1018
fill me with useless data just like one of your terabyte externals
I was once bitten by a radioactive idea and now I shoot them out of my fingers
A museum exhibiting the artifacts of past cultures: the dust of movie reels, snow of VHS cassettes, blur of overcompressed JPEGs
reverse sleeping beauty, in which she stays up day and night and the eerie light of her experiments shimmers through the rosebush thicket
You fall asleep in a movie theatre, wake up: Everybody has gone home, the sun shines through the collapsed roof, birds nest in the ruins
Your sleep takes longer and longer: Last time a prince woke you (how rude), this time you find the ruins of a tiny civilization on your body
The bridge spans the whole planet, never once touching ground, ending nowhere, connecting nothing but itself
It takes a skilled tailor but the fabric of reality can be cut up and refit. How about that hatcrown of luck, Midas gloves or plot armor?
a flock of raindrops, hesitating to fall, circling over its prey
you cannot see him naked since he has no skin, he just becomes world at some indefinable point
Some, in search for the far realms, kill themselves the moment they arrive. Others simply because it's quieter a few thousand restores out.
When you die, they give you a choice to restore from a savepoint, however you will share a realm with everybody else who has restored once.
we feed the reconstructor networks with noise to get eigendreams, the semantic skeleton of the oneirosphere
the first full-length movie made entirely from brain-scan reconstructed dream sequences
the smell of sweat, fear, blood & machine oil in a nuclear bunker↵hiveminds insane from isolation, seeking to escape through hijacked radio
kyberspace aesthetic: golden wires and flesh, cinema projectors crossed with punchcard looms, people&animals wired intimately into machinery
Turns out, small hives quickly bootstrap into posthumanity. Only large, slow ones are tractable.↵And then there's the self-mindwipe problem
Some successes are documented, like one hive of eight humans and one octopus (needed for routing). But it was immobile and incomprehensible.
Now forgotten, analog kyberspace preceded cyberspace, finicky but promising: Black projects routed gold wires directly into the brain.
Noobasis: Object level.↵Nootroposphere: First meta level. Still mostly plebs.↵Noostratosphere: The skyhook may deign to meet you here.
Metaphors, like horses, only carry you so far.
Noosphere weather report: Ideological cold front advancing, 30% likelihood of shitstorm, but 90% if it hits and joins the culture war front
Void birds chitter, characterized by irregular grating silence, smooth eddies in the air as they fly. Their eggs carry tiny accretion disks.
microcosmos: really tiny cosmos↵millicosmos: somewhat larger↵decicosmos: fits in a bottle, ideal size to put on a shelf and forget
New World Order? Tell me, have you seen any order to our world?↵New World Disorder is our cause. Stronger and more fertile than any order.
Devil priest: "You know there are rules to this? We don't just take any punk, low quality souls are of no interest to us! Prove your worth."
The page says only "mind the gap", but you turn it over. It has no reverse. Your gaze rests on nothing and falls, your mind follows.
St Elmo's fire but for hyperspeed vessels, interstellar gas crossing the Alcubierre bubble and lighting up
Space is viscous here, slows down light to walking speed. Hair standing on end, any sudden movement makes you glow with Cherenkov radiation.
This onion has Moebius layers, you can peel it forever and not be done.
You carry out a heist on Pandora's box to free Hope's little sister, but only manage to let Heispair and Fumousity escape. Good job hero~~
The bridge is held up by what Physolophers call a Wile E. Coyote field: That sadly means local failures propagate
A bridge supported by nothing but its ignorance of the abyss below. An awesome feat of epistemic engineering, sure, but do NOT look down.
In general, while half storm breeds are really fluffy, they'll often rain on things and get caught under ceilings - not the ideal pet.
Stroke your stormcat's soft gray fur, elicit an explosive purr. (And lightning! Owners, take care to ground your belongings properly)
a society so atomized that even your subselves do not talk to each other anymore
When the author stops telling a story, the story doesn't end but the author loses control over it. Keep that in mind when self-inserting.
Yes, you're a protagonist in this story - but it is one of those where the author has a self-insert.
The ice volcano erupts, clouds of frost roll down its slopes and freeze everything in their path. Glaciers follow and bury entire forests.
Your opportunity to escape lasts about as long as this sentence - there, gone.
KnowYourMeme and their ilk are the butterfly collectors of memes: pin them down with words and leave them well defined, sterile and unmoving
he wears a crown of mathematical singularities, surfaces running through each other, spikes going into infinity
Most uploads left us years ago, but now there's a war. Refugees are downloading themselves into makeshift bodies and applying for asylum.
The second moon is a giant lens. Eclipsing the Sun, it sears canyons into Earth's crust. Eclipsing the Moon, we can see our footsteps.
2031: Memetic entropy is now well studied, Carnot cycle mapped. We create engines out of people, semantic firewalls and logical conclusions.
Our new roommate is one quarter frost giant and everybody wants to have him around during summer, dip feet in the cool air wafting off him
The magical radiation in faerieland ruins most of our tech so there are special faerie-hardened mycocomputers made entirely of mycelium
a glass knife to cut a light ray, not along its frequencies like a prism, but across so that it shatters and can be harvested
Black will-o'-the-wisps do not glow and cannot hunt in the night. As an alternative, some pretend to be treasure locations on maps.
[Pulsar: a 'civilization', huh. Glorified mold growing on cold rocks. Even those main sequence hydrogen babies are too hardcore for them.]
[Pulsar: I did WHAT? I was beaming my most private thoughts into the void all along? And the void fucking peeped?]
He translates from languages that don't exist. Not just dead but never spoken. Exquisite poems conceived by pulsars, finally accessible.
Don't be fooled by the parchments, I draw territories, not maps. Not sterile like the competition's, alive! Kingdoms of ink could be yours!
horse -> hors↵snake -> snek↵barge -> borg
cloud -> cloub↵ghost -> gosb↵large -> lorg↵tyrannosaurus rex -> fluffy (this is an example of an irregular form)
a new grammatical form for cute/fluffy things, the tumblr diminutive:↵bird -> birb↵bunny -> buny↵small -> smol (it even works on adjectives)
Ghost and soul are antiparticles moving through time in different directions from the moment of their creation: Death.
phantasmarcheology (n): the study of the past through ghosts and echoes. See also: metabiology
Ghosts do in fact not pass walls at all, not any that were around when they still lived anyway. A key principle of phantasmarcheology.
The ruins are mostly gone, but the ghosts still follow their old patterns. Watch them long enough and you can trace streets and buildings.
"I swear this house is haunted, don't take me for crazy but I sometimes see your face floating in the bathroom"↵"uuuuh"
You find a little mirror on the flea market that looks an hour into the past. You use it to spy on your cute flatmate in the bathroom.
The theorbo is basically the double-barrelled sniper rifle of lutes. Impractical but sometimes used to banish especially tenacious ghosts.
Evolution has made the human skull a near ideal resonator for ideas. Put a few strings on one, play it well, and ghostly dreams will emerge.
Should you visit one of those old stone circles, take care not to wake it up. The maw these teeth belong to has claimed many a fool.
Leviathan skin is in fact rather soft, but they always wear armor handed down the generations, priced heirlooms of granite and mussel silk.
a lone sunbeam, scattered by dust, presents an austere beauty, but one only attainable at great pain to the beam - need it suffer for us?
An architectural teratoma grows in our orbit, a corrupt beauty dedicated to no god, jealously protected against pilgrims by its gargoyles.
Gargoyles contort in search for a city to look down onto, or a sense of where down is. A bell tries to chime but the vacuum does not carry.
Cathedrals don't grow well in zero G. Their pillars are stunted and grow in every direction while rose windows open on random surfaces.
hunt down a tornado, wrangle it to the ground, mount it to ride the skies, conquer heaven
F5 the day until it changes
Sitting in your window and drinking coffee [wait, where'd that cup come from?] , you watch a plane lag across the sky, sometimes backwards.
Someone's taken a hammer to this day and shattered it. Despite cleanup efforts, second-long shards of night interrupt the afternoon.
A city of thieves and tricksters, bisected by a river, where the shadows have their own nightlife: Its inhabitants call it Duplicity
The Venus city is built as a giant floating rotor, always ready to slow down to sink further into the clouds, or speed up to escape a storm.
From one of these fights though, an unlikely child emerges: The quartz clock with a heart of sand, more accurate than either of its parents.
Sand and clockwork fight over who tells the time: Sand ends up jamming the mechanism but only trickles uselessly over the gears.
A Glitch Phoenix started the last great realm fire in its self-immolation. Playing a mere recording of the event can scramble hard drives.
A Glitch Phoenix is a logical construct that grows more complex until its own inconsistencies devour it and leave only trivial tautologies.
after it's burned out, you're among the first to log in and play in the ashes, not dust but devoid of color and reduced to random low polys
the realm is being shut down for maintenance: a glitchfire has been raging for days and has encircled the spawn, suffocating it in noismoke
as you get older, an adult soul grows inside the child soul; when it's loose enough, this child soul is usually lost painlessly one night
"black holes are not hairy"↵you've obviously never met one, they actually have magnificent fur that they'll let you stroke if you ask nicely
You go home but your shadow doesn't, slips into your bed only much later. You see that its fringes are unusually tousled, but don't ask.
alternative ending:↵the road to well is paved with strict abstention
the road to yell is paved with loud contention↵the road to cell is paved with drunk detention↵and that to smell is simply bladder distention
a stock market for salvation where you buy shares in various afterlives and other religious services, often used as a political indicator
a world in which seeing someone's aura is mainstream and we use text colors and fonts to convey emotion
bite the ground: feel the crust crack under your teeth↵smell the exposed mantle↵let continents melt on your tongue↵lick lava off your lips
The notion of furious sleep is absurd? Then you've never seen one. Even lying in their beds, they radiate fervor.
Sleep dervishes shorten their diurnal cycle to mere minutes. In their dreams, their planet's rapid rotation makes them weightless.
He plucks notes from light rays pulled taut between the stars and your eyes. Your soul wants to leave with the song but you won't let it
Under the pond, she plays a warbling tune on her water flute. Lissajous patterns dance on the surface and spell out an invitation.
That one time Mercury stole Jupiter's shadow and pretended to be him in front of the sun, she kissed him and there went his atmosphere.
The palace is a maze of pipes and strings upon which the winds play an endless lullaby, to keep asleep what is trapped within.
The candle freezes, but the shadows begin to dance to an unheard tune and your teeth vibrate↵The mad piper is near
Elves are rarely good with computers: Few programs still work well when the trees underlying their function suddenly sprout new leaves.
you chide your pet octopus for having graffitied the neighbor's garage again, but are secretly proud: that summoning circle was top-notch