# 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=1218
# next = https://watcher.sour.is?uri=https://www.synkretie.net/twtxt&offset=1318
# prev = https://watcher.sour.is?uri=https://www.synkretie.net/twtxt&offset=1118
endgame of VR headsets: masks modeled on facehuggers with complete sensory feed (visual/aural/osmatic), a soylent pipe down your esophagus
At this moment, oversized dreamcatchers are trawling dreamtime, fishing off many dreams destined for you. Don't let it happen! #oneiprotect
We tie spacetime into complicated knots to produce artificial gravity. Our space stations now look like tangles of thorny tentacles.
He paints with pigments that are not-colors, not simply complements, but absences. A canvas covered in not-white, producing a blind spot.
The basilisk looks wistfully at the clouds. Not much later, a mountain falls and crushes him. It seems one of the clouds was alive.
the wave breaks - and stops, frozen into sea-green glass↵it breaks again - this time into smaller and smaller pieces, an avalanche of sand
the awkward silence after saying something hurtful (for dark hours), the blissful silence of a secret hiding place (when overwhelmed)
part of her music collection is various kinds of silence: a glacier's (cold, austere), a cave's (dark, oppressive), pauses between sentences
You rush to the copier to capture the queen, one fat hypercomplex letter sprawling over a page spread, while soldier letters bite and sting
Letters scramble into the margins as you open the book. It seems you accidentally opened a hive. Ink figures start crawling up your arm.
to scrub a mind clear, feed it conceptual noise, everything-but-reality, to untie and undo all concepts it has learned, one by one
A wooden skin spreads over the corpse and a dryad is born, wearing the face of the deceased, roots inwards, feeding on what flesh is left.
The first dryad is said to have been imprinted from a dead maiden dumped at a tree's roots. Soon, it became a popular method of burial.
Roots grow over the sleeping rabbit, envelop it. Much later, lumberjacks find some really funky growth rings: the rabbit, now xylified.
The whole sprawl is a music box, a mechanism performing an esoteric social symphony. Its gears will take you along and you won't know it.
Those of you who enter Synchronicity, know that its laws are unlike ours. Hidden clockwork powers its citizens, causality... rhymes.
aphenia: (n) seeing sth without recognizing it↵cacophenia: (n) sensory/conceptual overload↵ambiphenia: (n) that which necker cubes produce
Many are covered in snow, meltwater streams through large stone tubes, cows graze on lower roofs in the shadow of huge buttresses,
Scale one of their spires before the morning, sneak past its sleeping protectors, watch and hear thousands of bells ring to greet the sun.
A few hundred years ago, a number of gargoyles went feral in these mountains. They have since converted entire ranges into cathedrals.
Onomants, able to reveal and change true names, are feared by other wizards: Having fire renamed to buttsex badly messes up your fireballs.
you place the seed crystal in the solution, a crystal self-interpenetrating tree grows and in this way computes an answer in gem form
solutio soluta: (n) solution in search for a problem (literally: unbound/free solution)
Watch it for a while and it'll seep into your mind. Tiny doses help creativity, but any larger and it leaves only a frothing mass of ideas.
A puddle of acid, a shimmering pool of light, an idea, a piece of paper with calculations written on it, a dazzling fractal, a lump of iron,
It is critical to an alkahest's functioning to constantly dissolve itself into new forms, to find one that can attack or escape the problem.
wherever you go, you share your body with a zombie
Moth wings cause no atmospheric storms, but dream storms: Whole weather systems of infectious nightmares that wander a continent's minds.
metamorphosis stages of a solar system: opaque cloud, opening eye, spinning lock, closing eye, solved riddle
Like cylinders of a lock, the planets revolve around the sun. Take the key, align them, and it will open to reveal what is behind.
Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but it was lost on us when the beautiful androids the net was extruding began to replace us
nested irises open, each reveals a different color, you'd think the pupil would show up eventually but no, it's a yellow cat iris this time
To create a hunger golem, take a thousand starving paralyzed rats and a paper slip of names. It won't rest until the bearers are devoured.
entropy mold has gotten into the vault and the gems are rotting into colorful sand, emitting a peculiar sharp-edged and dusty stench
brightmares of crossing a desert of harsh swirling colors under a blinding sun; parching thirst and sensory overload leave you exhausted
handmade bonsai gods that come in shrines and watch over your household if you feed them enough adoration (the street calls them tamagodchi)
The Pharos Morgana, a saltwater will-o'-the-wisp, lures ships beyond the horizon to feed on their wreckage at the bottom of the waterfall.
He has music-architecture synesthesia and encrypts his plans as sheet music
to still have sailed the seven seas, of which one dried up and one was simply lost, no one remembers where it lay, maps don't show it
outsite (adj): not on this site
"but auntie, weren't those full of bigotry, CP spam and unfiltered memetic waste? did you not get mindrot?" "...we managed."
in some 20 years we're going to tell the kids in their content siloes how w̲e̲ used to get outsite at night & explore abandoned imageboards
Books hang off the author's mind, fat and lazy memetic ticks, yet she works tirelessly to feed them. What is it with these authors?
computationalist's fallacy (n): not pursuing a theory because it doesn't point to an elegant algorithm (but is it a fallacy?)
Your red pill manifests as the thing you want most: As you attain it, you wonder if you're dreaming and wake up, just when you'd rather not.
the cybernaiads of the bittorrent that assemble themselves from floating pieces
teardrop naiads, tiny witnesses of tragedy↵blood naiads, often seen after battles, trying to play with the (usually humorless) valkyries
desert naiads of the wadi, years in drysleep, alive only for days at a time↵the oldest naiad, protector of an unnamed creek in australia
the naiads of the thermohaline circulation, huge and powerful whale forms↵the meltwater naiads of greenland, ice bear girls with white fur
As the Jupiter atmosphere probe flies overhead, sentient storms emerge from the cloud cover and jump along its path like dolphins.
scenes of utter depravity↵[zooms onto a furry roleplay chat]↵[subliminal images of a VR gimpsuit]↵[someone self-liking their entire feed]
<news announcer voice> sensory feed addicts, a spam riot in the city forum, glitch whores, kids in low-res neighborhoods huffing memes
this staff is most powerful: made of wood and lightning, both alive, intertwined to wreak creation
He catalogues his thoughts and a periodic system emerges. It is of great help hunting down undiscovered ideas, but he dreads its completion.
the abyss does not judge you or pretend to hide its endless hunger. but that makes it at least one entity that cares about you
strip naked before the abyss and dance under its devouring gaze, revel in the knowledge that it will only have you when you're dead
Gaze long enough into the abyss, and you will recognize it as your own navel.
The future is set in stone. The past, not so much. Having given up on change, we furiously rewrite history in search for telos and hope.
The mage steps up to the campfire, a roaring column of blue fire ascends and branches out into yellow leaves: The tree stands one last time
A huge fireball, paradoxically both dark and too brilliant to look at. Its edge dissolves everything. We dare each other to dance along it.
We like to visit the part of the city where a nuclear explosion was frozen in time by the city's glitch-powered missile defense shield.
the mosquitoes here penetrate skulls to suck ideas↵if you swat one, it'll leave an ink-black smear of words and images on your palm
"They're dead, accept it, this has been the way since life began" vs "Ghosts now serve an important role in society, some even as judges"
2040: Contracts that bind ghosts to their loved ones for eternity are banned, a decision criticized by both ghost industry and many bereaved
After your death, a simulacrum generated from your surveillance data will clean up after you. A digital ghost, bound by past duties.
cut reality to see if it bleeds: it does↵liquid time flows out, traps you like amber↵reality's skin heals over and you're caught under it
Two lightning bolts chase each other, outside, across the meadow, do not heed what is around them, leave scars like writing on the ground.
A puzzle has been solved. Dormant connections light up, sparks fly, the mixture touches off. A new world blooms into being explosively.
They rest their foreheads against each other's but meet no resistance: Skulls glide into each other, mindscapes interlock, mutual completion
the steganosaurus has transparent scales, flesh and bones, when you see its teeth it's already too late
A tale of caution, citizens! Remember to dispose of oneiroactive waste! Don't leave it around, turn it in, lest it sprout or reactivate.
She finds an old dreamcatcher in the attic and accidentally drops it. Dreams scamper off into the shadows and she has nightmares for weeks.
You open the book to wind up a music box attached to its back. With every chapter, a new soundtrack slides into place and plays.
Oh yes they still remember how they pacified the lumberjacks. But it's them who rule now. If you come for sex, be reminded that you're ｐｒｅｙ.
When the lumberjacks left, the dryads quickly turned feral, having lost their protective function. Their woods are empty of animals.
We radioed a few, no answer, no signs of life. But the stars… stirred. Something large was moving. Whatever it is, it's now on its way to us
He built a telescope. Used a mirror of amber and silver, the better to see ghosts with. Found them: entire nebulae. Eurekamen.
"You're looking for life in space, but doing it wrong! You should be looking for signs of death, not life!" We thought his claims wild.
In old times, rainbows were in pythagorean, not equal scale. You see the colors bleed into each other slightly differently on old paintings.
Cloud providers struggle with haunted circuits until they find out water cooling helps: Running water.↵They're now hiring psychics.
Some of the newer AIs qualify for having souls: Their merciless evolution in datacenters makes these hotspots of necromantic energy
a wave of rock is on the horizon, closing in, grasslands and forests break on fresh mountain faces that push through the ground like teeth
But, unnoticed by human supervisors, a previously intractable class of solvers is cracked: Data entry clerks.↵Seizures sweep the globe.
Solver crashes are local, but sufficient for fingerprinting. Trained on solver reactions, anti-solver fractals grow more and more effective.
Advances in image recognition show certain classes of captcha solvers to be vulnerable to Langford inputs. Antispam quickly weaponizes this.
Books of lost knowledge materialize in the secret library every day. Their pages vanish under the reader's eye as their secrets are un-lost.
run two instances, let one watch and project its relief of not being the victim into the other's thoughts
instrument a mind with debugging hooks to catch all "at least they didn't come up with [...]" thoughts
upload torture chamber:↵the snip, which steals cherished memories↵the mace, which corrupts them↵the graft, which adds horrible fake ones
She cries soap bubbles that float upwards, each containing an unhappy memory, darkly iridescent like oil slick
"Then graverobbers, now saverobbers: Watch our report on how a shadow industry adapts to changing circumstances"
Old school liches store their souls in crypts, modern ones encrypt their minds and make backups. The rules stay the same: don't touch that.
Error correction algorithms proved curiously effective against magical corruption. A game changer for black magic, now nearly respectable.
A house hangs from the underbelly of a cloud, anchored by a few orphaned naiads whose desperate thirst pulls them against their cages.
wax rain from a cloud of floating candles coats the landscape and suffocates plants and crops
Propaganda is essentially eumemics, luckily not the kind that breeds stronger and healthier memes but only useful ones.
He's so tired that as he sits down, his head and limbs detach and roll across the room (some mornings, he puts on the arms the wrong way)
Those who can afford the hardware have plots in the high resolution quarters of Polygon City, while low poly is synonymous with poor.
mirrored glasses that let you see your own eyes and nothing else