# I am the Watcher. I am your guide through this vast new twtiverse.
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# twt range = 1 3418
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Bereft of its shadow, moon grieved. Now always full, it did not sleep anymore, took on a sickly color. Tides became erratic, wolves howled.
It struggled, oh it did. Left swathes of land in eternal dusk, created a sea of darkness as it bled out. But this was it: The last eclipse.
But his ambition was not sated. He brooded. Planned. Consulted astronomical tables. Waited. And then it came: Solar eclipse. Moon's shadow.
Shadows are hunted for their pelts and sold to tailors. He, the greatest hunter of all, once caught a mountain's shadow. Crashed the market.
The tree of oblivion is wrought of glass from roots to leaves. It does not seem to move, but is never twice the same when you look at it.
Clouds have been reproducing asexually since angels died out. Meteorologists currently race to preserve the remaining breeds in a cloudbank.
You hear tales of spirits in the untamed parts of the net, data nixes that sing to you and pull you into virtuality when you come too close
Antichaos, in which no matter what you do, the outcome is stable.↵Achaos, in which nothing you do reaches farther than the immediate change.
Neat side effect: the semantic resonance between digital magic and your digits makes keyboards unreasonably effective in its control.
Apart from this, digital magic has quantization artifacts from low resolution that leave glitches. And lacks a certain analog warmth.
Similarly, even professional boards grow veins and nerves with time. Above a certain number of tiny beating hearts, they become unusable.
Oh and please, do not eat that bread. That is, if you don't want a tree growing out of your stomach later (and that's a harmless outcome).
Breadboards for example are known to become literal bread. If your room suddenly smells of bakery, you know you've just burned your circuit.
You'll need to use specially hardened processors, strong magical fields will often transmute your boards into something semantically close.
There are a few practical challenges. Should you stop simulating space, the GPU will quench violently and release magic smoke, lots of it.
Getting magic into a computer is a challenge though: It took a few breakthroughs in psionics and information theory to add a meta level.
It also turns out magic is not picky about what space is made of: GPUs soak up magic like sponges when running certain computations.
Fractal pyramids for a really sharp focus. Interwoven rings and splines as broadband magic storage. Spinning iron rods as temporal lenses.
The pyramid is a known and effective leyline focus. But only recently, its math has become tractable and simulations have found new shapes:
Her hair is a tangle of copper curls that broadcasts her thoughts.↵When she's excited, your wifi and cellphone stop working.
There are now fences in the sky↵Clouds bump against them, confused↵They are not quite used to being cattle yet
They separate the visible from the invisible and run along ideological chasms and schelling fences rather than rivers. Have fun mapping!
As cyberspace swallows meatspace, egregore mediated reality becomes a thing and new borders are drawn. We didn't have enough of them before.
Reverse time domains crystallize and spread. The few civilizations yet around have to adapt, some make a killing trading between domains.
Setting: The universe stops expanding and the arrow of time reverses, but unevenly, like a wave on a shore both advancing and receding.
Wish granted: The world now revolves around you, its rotational axis follows you around. It is currently polar night. Cold, also dark.
Masks orbit and obscure his head. One eclipses his face and stays in place: a smile, currently. Only his eyes shine through in bright red.
Prequel: a huge computer says "thgil eb ereht tel" to nobody in particular, thinking that perhaps in another timeline, it had a purpose.
When you play humanity backwards, it's about a huge ball of grey goo clay extruding paradise, then birthing a civilization to destroy it.
A timetraveller has arrived but got the direction wrong. We watch his corpse reassemble itself, prepare to pull out the knife to unkill him.
Essentially, even though the surface is a mirror, bad luck is proportional to total mirror edge length and drops of water have no edges.
So why does bathing not incur aeons of bad luck for mirror breaking? There's a really neat proof for why it doesn't but this tweet is too sh
Your brain makes an awful slurping, then grinding/ticking sound. It seems to have reconfigured itself into gears. Think about an oil change.
"you do not pascal-mug your predecessors" as ethical principle preventing basilisks because your successors may do the same to you
"the current machine learning hype is retrocausal propaganda by future intelligences"↵there is such a thing as too much coffee
coffee notes made this morning: an economy based on acausal trade between past and future (along a significant tech gradient)
In our greatest heist, we stole Mars. It was too heavy to tow away, so we just left it in its orbit. It's ours now though!
Charge the sun recorder with light, play it back at night. Prominences dance over a fist-sized star's surface and incinerate wayward moths.
the world slows down, every twitch of a muscle becomes deliberate, every grain of sand is a gem, the wind teases with numerous soft touches
You can try to recover such journals the next night, but they're quickly either forgotten or sold by dreamrobbers to the dreamless ones.
A dream copy protection scheme that fools even experienced dream journalers: a decoy journal catches the memory before you really wake up.
"The moon is really close today!"↵[clouds pass behind it]↵"oh"
It is hard to pollinate skyscrapers, but nature found a way. Now their stalks bend under the weight of seeds and we avoid the streets.
The sea turns to blood, we desalinate it. Locusts come, we eat them. Gabriel, led off in handcuffs after reports about a dude with a sword.
Someone pulled the plug on the sky, soil is floating up, a whole river spirals into an invisible sink, trees are doing their best to clog it
We who have found the Between are an exclusive club. Oh, new blood! Want to watch the Big Bang? There, stand just next to the walls of time.
It is not hard to escape the Reaper by feigning death, but to interact with a universe that thinks you're dead is. Eternal glitch state.
rube goldbuild (n): overly complicated build
You can explore dreamtime in a bathysphere, dreamproof and designed to withstand great pressure. Or go native, grow gills, breathe ideas.
A parasitic word jumps from sentence to sentence, disguising as other words and taking ｔｈｅｉｒ place, feeding off meaning meant for others.
Soil samples taken disappear over night, digging sites close over. Sonar shows a chamber in its heart, but all attempts to breach it fail.
It must have embedded itself in the crust like a wooden splinter long ago. Mountain ranges have splashed and broken against it like waves.
The hill looks ordinary but is old, really old, maybe older than Earth. No dating method can place it, Earth's crust simply flows around it.
She plays an unexpected, unexpectable rhythm, each beat startles you, an arrhythmical battering reducing your musical knowledge to rubble.
2050: Gods are now a commodity. We put little angry box gods into prison dice. Their results poison the mind, but we enjoy the thrill.
she shows you how to tickle the storm's belly with radio waves, its purr thunders over you, nearly throws you off your feet↵"he likes you!"
princess of the storm: stolen by a tornado, raised by clouds, sleeps on the updraft inside a cumulonimbus, keeps ball lightning in her pouch
A hacker named LS made her way in once, told me the inmates were quite cheerful and had no intention of leaving. She had left empty-handed.
The researchers do not dare kill their failed sentient AIs, instead retire them to a dedicated datacenter: The endless superhuman tea party.
Split the morpheme to uncover forbidden meaning. Forge alien thoughts into a linguistic strangelet bomb and with it raze the noosphere.
Overexposure may cause painful oversensitivity of your eyes (sometimes permanent), pupils larger than your iris, afterimages in hypercolors.
Darken this candle by pouring a little liquid nitrogen over it. But do not stare into the unflame, it is every bit as dangerous as the sun.
A starfarer's constellations are ephemeral like a surfacer's cloud formations. As stars move, mythical animals emerge and vanish in silence.
Whatever their hope was, it did not materialize. I am trapped on a dead world, maybe my gut flora will inherit it after I've starved.
I step out of the portal and all the trees are petrified, the dryads dead at my feet, the last bit of magic powering the portal fizzling
"thank you for listening to me", he spoke to the empty chair
Binary trees make for a decent magic conductor in a pinch. Magic has not yet caught on that they're not really wood. Please don't tell it.
The mountains hear the challenge and prepare for battle, to meet civilizations worth of architecture, led by the renegade demimountain
The pyramid bellows a command in a voice of shifting rocks↵It reverberates over the plain↵Cities dwindle as houses wake up and march to war
The nest is cushioned with all manners of gems: a great treasure but jealously protected by the mother who has eviscerated many a miner.
The crystal eagle's nest is perched under the base of the mountain. A small number of geodes lie in it, still dreaming, waiting to evert.
Stones, worn smooth from bumping into other stones constantly.↵Minds, creased and crinkled instead, with lots of things hanging on to them.
Trout: A tale of light broken by waves and narrow escapes from predators.↵Bread: Wind, burning sun, mice.↵Milk: Warmth, love, confusion.
The stroke stole all his words but the stories still burn in his mind. He now cooks them, talks in spices to people his subtlety is lost on.
Your symbol: a tesseract↵Your task: throw the dice, defeat the odds; wear many faces↵Your destiny: lost after 3 right turns
Planets with a spin of 1/2 have twice the surface area, which makes them highly sought after by colonists.
This cloud looks extremely suspicious: a bunch of tornadacles are dangling from its belly, wrapping around another cloud, reeling it in
Dig the pit just right, yes, leave a little iron in it, set off the charge, if you did it right a meteor will form and leave at great speed
Mass is inside an old reactor dome, the priest wears a hazmat suit and hands out iodine tablets, and the congregate dances a chain reaction.
The Church of the Fission Reactor has made religious schismata part of their dogma. The more heretic beliefs you hold, the holier.
We stripmined the Moon and in it, found a continent-sized gear. The Builders had just left it there after finishing the Round Earth Project.
@allgebrah the fundamental shapes are underrepresented among occult and religious symbols↵semioticians, apply yourselves
Your occult symbol: a circle↵Your task: separate inside and outside; repeat, uphold the rhythm↵Your destiny: eternal recurrence
Your occult symbol: a straight line↵Your task: find syzygies and otherwise bring them about; drive progress↵Your destiny: be born, live, die
Chronoleeches suck his time, his limbs age at different speeds, one half of his brain has five years on the other and constantly berates it.
Three moons, but only one is real!↵Will you land on the right one and take home the prize? Or fall through its surface and vanish?
Old idea of mine whose time may have come: VR/AR overlay that lets you spam virtual graffiti and imaginary buildings
your cat molts, steps out of her skin, emerges just a bit taller↵not long until she spins a fluffy cocoon to end her caterpillar stage
Long abandoned, a local desert wind often moves in to overwinter. Its snore fills the palace with dust and the towers once again stand tall.
In the desert, the Palace of Winds stands invisible. Dust devils trace its corridors. A jinn built it, in love, granting a fourth wish.
These people's superstitions are rich and varied: where the shadows mix, new qualities emerge, certain ones are not to be stepped in
Multiple suns light the sky and people throw multiple shadows, each of a different character: unstable, sinister, rebellious, sullen
The future saints of: skewered by a particle accelerator beam, eaten by grey goo, mindwiped by a hacked neural interface, lost in space
Proposed rule: For any imaginable violent death, there is a catholic saint it claimed. If there is none (too new?), there will be one.
We succeeded in making our robots more natural than nature itself: fluffier, shinier, greener, deadlier. So we just gave up on the biosphere
a creature of the city, small, formless, it collects discarded memories to eat them, grows into something people expect but never remember
Reality did not crack as it fell to the floor. It did, however, make one hell of a noise.↵BANG-ANG-Ang-aanng-aaaannnng-a a a annn an a a
Discovered by an imprisoned witch, a plant growth spell for example will split into the (unstable by themselves) swelling and aging spells.
An essential tool in spell analysis is to diffract it through a wrought iron grid to split it into its semantic constituents.
Every page of my earth orbit book opens a portal to space. Found an NSA satellite in it once, glued a fly to its camera to mess with them.