Look out the window nearest to you

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more plz

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The blinds on the dorm window are closed, as usual. I'm too lazy to reach past my computer monitor to open them, as I would have to leave my seat. Supposing I were to reach around my monitor and over my computer tower, it would probably be the same as usual. It would dark out and there would be no activity, save for the odd student walking to their dorm room along the dimly lit balconies. I long to go outside at the moment, but I have no reason to do so.

is this Finnegan's Wake

imma be the prick.

plain, not much to say
sturdy sequence of imagery in calculated, mathematical minutiae. works in some moments, which yields a close sentiment into the work, and a specificity which has its place. unfortunately most of it is trite. a tad repetitive
solid, enjoyable prose. examines imagery within a lax, subjective cynicism, that, while being funny and personal, is intelligently written. it's own kind of dense.
mediocre-ish i guess. reads to me an attempt at posh, composed delivery reflecting cold mundanity--it's a commonly immitated style. clearly trying hard to be what it's not. the last sentence should be enough of a tell. insincere and dumb.

You can't credit James Joyce as one of my influences.

im the last guy, it's just my stream of consciousness bro you spent more time thinking about it than i did :^)

I can see the compost heap. Beyond it is a wall of black nightshade. I looked the variety up. It's not as lethal as deadly nightshade, but eating enough of the underripe berries will still kill you. I used to think it was a noxious weed, but it turns out it's native to this area.

Beyond that is the hedge.

Under the hedge is an old stone wall in a state of disrepair. It's knee-high now, sunk down into the sand. Or buried as the sand shifted? The geography around here is dynamic, and if you go dig in the yard you'll find all sorts of things that have sunk down into the earth decades past. I know for a fact there's half a pig's skull out there somewhere, under the grass.

I think that old wall is older than the house.

Funny thing about this house. Before we moved in, an elderly man died in the room next door to the one I'm sitting in.

lol sorry. for just whipping it up that quick it's not awful

shoot i feel bad

It's all good my dude

pure darkness, the woods are black and there lies only creature in the night

These threads can only be good if people give honest or hyperbolically-negative feedback.

Have I read this somewhere else, or have you posted it here before?

My good dude, I just wrote that just then.

See pic related: some of my nightshade taken 10 minutes ago, and part of the compost pile. Both, to be frank, have been spreading a bit recently and are not where they began.

The first bit I recognized from 'The Way of Kings' that I've been listening to on audiobook. Not that you plagiarized it, there's something similar. Another part I think I recognize from Poe. But then the end is a bit Stephen King sounding. This could mean one or both of the following: I'm losing my mind, your writing is derivative.

>the thin-cold

What is a thin-cold? Was this another way of saying frost? Just say frost. It's OK to say frost three times.

This should all be one paragraph. You probably typed it out on mobile. Hard to see what you're doing that way. Turns even good people into reddit-spacers.

But if it was desktop and you have no excuse, don't do that any more. What you wrote would be good as a single paragraph, but it's garbage the way you spaced it. Empty space and weird breaks don't make your prose poetic. The last line is awful either way though. Very children's spooky story.

>I used to think it was a noxious weed, but it turns out it's native to this area.

I don't understand how being native to the area contradicts it being a noxious weed.

there's a walkway made of red brick that's hedged on both sides by shrubs. beyond it is a wooden fence.

Curtains, green and unwashed since the day they were purchased.
Drawn tight lest the milf who lives accross the street should catch me jerking it.

The tropic palms stand subject to a midnight frame. A new cold settles into the soil, holding onto the late-october heat. Frayed and red-tipped leaves hang overhead in long strands, dripping drops of November night's water. From the nearby university a party can be heard.

The blinds are closed, the world beyond them dark, but I know what's out there:
the slight warm breezes which occasionally sway the reaching arms of the palm arced over the entrance of the grassy pathway, itself bordered on each side by a jumbled mess of potted ornamental plants, the northern group of which is halted by a privacy wall that blocks the view of the unilluminated asphalt street beyond.
Overhead, wires drawn taut from utility poles, like pen-strokes gridding the abysmal sky behind them, the atmosphere buzzing with the ever-present conversation of nocturnal beasts.

Balcony, balcony across the way. What do you do from night til day. If I could know you - what is awaiting? Have you seen me masurbating. Balcony, balcony across the way. Please come over and give me a lay.

Holy run-on.
>Overhead, wires drawn taut from utility poles, like pen-strokes gridding the abysmal sky behind them
This is evocative and beautiful imagery. A salvage to the refuse of this post.
>lest the milf who lives accross the street should catch me jerking it.
You and me - we are very different men
yawn

I see what is outside my window. Is it really worth explaining beyond that?

>Holy run-on.
While I was writing the first sentence I did think it was extremely long; however, this alone does not make it a run-on sentence. There would have to be pieces which can stand on their own without modification for this assessment to be correct. I do agree that the sentence is extreme.

>This is evocative and beautiful imagery
Thanks.

>A salvage to the refuse of this post.
Thanks for being honest.

White frost; death of leaves, dying trees. Path obscured, not by snow. An old shed, soon too dead.

My garden trees; soaked and drooping, with several birds of the Australian bush hiding underneath their protruding branches.

Fuck there was another word for being sad or down I read yesterday and I can't remember it.

Dismal, mourn, gloom, bitter
>bereaved
forlorn, grief, dreary, morose?

Don't worry I went through my history and found it.

Word was Crestfallen.

Would feel pretentious using it within a sentence.
Maybe a sentence "opener". Or the name of a chapter.

It's hard to because my shitty plastic window blinds don't slide across the little rack at the top like they're supposed to. It's one of those with the long individual vertical strips that clatter loudly and sway when you push them against each other. You only have to push one to set them all off really, it's like a pendulum. So, if I want my window open on a breezy day I'll squeeze them together into a fat bundle and wrap a rubber band so they don't make constant noise. Anyway, I have to part them to look out so that's why it's hard, I guess. Right as I joined this thread I heard outside a rattling that sounded like it was from a shopping cart, something I would never otherwise investigate. It was a homeless man walking slowly by, minding only himself. He was so tiny.
Everything else is nothing as always - the parking lot to the left, the side street, the 134. The homeless man reminds me of another time, oh my god. I was walking in the city alone when I notice a homeless woman hunched over her own shopping cart, walking around frantically screaming "HEIL HITLER! HEIL HITLER!" People were mortified as they hurried past her. I thought it was absolutely hilarious - not in some edgy way, but just the absurdity of it. Just picturing it now makes me laugh. She was so loud.

>pretentious
Yeh, I see what you mean.

The shitty subdivided town houses that are replacing the even shittier fibro houses frame the anakiwa blue sky as it slowly fades into twilight ending what was a perfect sunny day.
Guess what city I'm in and I'll post a pic of my gf's khazar milkers.

Marlborough, NZ? Dont post any 3d pigs on this board though, thats disgusting

No dice sheep fucker

Through the slits of darkened blinds I see the blackness lightened. Fog fills the air, catching the orange hues from the city's night-lights and throws them in all directions. There could be a fire raging not two blocks from where I lay, and this it may well look like. This color in the night sky always seemed to me to be an unnatural sight to behold when the darkness should reign supreme. Perhaps tonight is the end of days, and this colored sky be an early hint to the day of doom. The silhouettes of trees and homes protest the light, baring the shade that should be all encompassing.

best ITT

>applewhore.jpg

It's weird the little things that'll make you kek hard when you're lurking. This iss such an unnecessarily mean thing to name that picture that it did the trick for some reason.

It's from the film Chungking Express

Black, like my soul.
It permeates throughout the night filling every crack and hole.
Oozing nothingness and promising foreboding tidings.
Tonight nobody is cruising, everyone is dieing.

Aye, but it's true. An old fella carked it in the room next door. Dog buried the pig's head, which I bought from the supermarket. Weird that you can buy them in halves here, but I'm not complaining.

Never heard of The Way of Kings, never read Poe. The only King I've read was The Stand, while I was on the psych ward, and only out of desperation because there was no internet, no phone service, the psychotherapy lessons were bollocks, the group therapy was even worse, and there was a severely limited library where King came out on top.

Black, like my soul.

The trees were my defenders. They towered over my domain and as I peered at their looming presence, I knew I was safe. Dripping off them were the tears of the sky. The air's scent was unbelievably fresh. I cracked my window open and let the outside oxygen bless my room and my lungs with its presence. Sitting back down at my glowing laptop screen, I began to write.

this is honestly really great

I can't see anything. It's the middle of the night. Faceless men keep rocking my car back and forth. They're going to turn it over.

Depthless agony from an institution in mystery.

English is not even my second language, so cut me some slack.

It was almost noon, and the sun had already reached its peak.
The mountains raised hazy and distant, as if inviting on far-reaching but fruitless quests, and the city below was but a mishmash of half-glimpsed forms and quivering gleams.
Severing me from the heavenly sight, laid that strip of sea with its elegant white-sailed ships gliding aimlessly.
The roof of the old factory, darkened by decades of neglection, exuded pallid vapors, and amongst the ciaroscuro of its tiles hid the stirring silhouettes of seabirds. A cave-in, like a vast grotto, showed the factory rusted innards, from which lust vegetation sprouted and hailed the sun.

Landsbergis is out again, rummaging through the trash with the neighborhood cats. The puddles in the dirt road, which resemble an array of stately ponds more with every day, are disrupted by the cautious rolling of an ambulance and the accompanying police convoy. The medics don't come here unprotected anymore after the last incident. The hooded dealers who were patrolling the shacks in spite of the frost have all disappeared somewhere. Only Landsbergis is stumbling through the street now, clutching a bag filled with plastic bottles - going home, wherever that may be today.

...

There are no windows here. The television is playing a Beatles documentary and the black and white footage is intercut with talking heads scraped from the bottom of the barrel of Australian music journalism. There's another screen that shows information about the Plant, I'll have to go and take another sample before long.

Letting go of the pen, I put my hands in the air and arched my back as I went into a deep stretch. A few creaks and pops with a sudden rush of energy was my reward, a welcome change of pace. With my back arched I could just glance over the people in front of me. The window at the far end of the room was heavily tinted and often I had trouble gaging how it fared outside. Overcast with a chance of snow maybe? It ought to be cold enough I wagered. Meh. I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of freezing rain. Glancing back to my desk jolted me with a quick snapback to reality as I realized I wasn't even halfway done.

A fucking boring snowless cunt grey. At least it's not summer.

Bump

i was trying to do the faulkner thing where you turn adjectives into nouns :(
like 'the warm-smelling'

You didn't fucking describe what was outside the window you cunt, only yourself. This right here is why you can't finish your damn book.

the fields, imitating black water blend at their edge into their inspiration. on the cliff of the suburbs-expanse, you can see discs of light held up by mighty, invisible towers, signs that living does not end here, but fills space equally, uncaring and calm.

Peering out the glass, I see rain land upon the grass.
The trees are still yet the air is shrill
Freezing cold sky, I can feel upon my eyes.
The rain continues to fall.
Winter will soon replace fall.
Looking out from inside the hall.

wow sp00ky

From dirty sheets I look up to see egg-white slats slicing up the glass into thin faded rectangles of sky above and muted glimpses of dry chalky brick, burnt into a deep crimson by summers past, below

the use of egg-white instantly made me physically cringe. other than that its nice and the structure is good, maybe somewhat uselessly wordy

A golden light lies down on the top layer of migrant clouds, seeping through and rains across town. The trees have shed their leaves, and the block is quiet and calm. Listless photos sitting on the windowsill stare back at me. The telephone wires sag and sway in the cold, the wind takes command, and reminds me that it is winter once more. I haven't seen the somber sun in some time. I say goodbye as it makes its way to the icy bliss of a November night.

It's dark n shit

A mansion, brick and brick red, English, dotted with windows, a room per. In each, presumably, a person. Most of that glass leads nowhere - heavy curtains drawn in clear separation of being and being watched. Seven lights remain out of a hundred could have beens.

The light draws the eye, but always to an empire of disappointment, an always still room. The stories retreat behind the fabric: the girl, the couple, the lonely, the just-here-until-not, squeezed between the brick strips.

The most meaningful interaction I ever had with that mansion was the morning a man, long haired and naked, leaned out of it with a cigarette, smoked, was watched, and left. Otherwise the mansion just stood, blocking other contemplations, forcing itself by existing, giving nothing much.

Sunbeam on hill, eclipsing the mount and permeating through the crystal cold. Late afternoon glimmer contrasting the homely cabin among the frosted wreathes. On the borderline between the light and shadow, your warm sanctuary settles in for the night.

It's the night sky, given that it's 11 PM and it's a ceiling window.

Downwards, there is no ground to be seen, and upwards the limit is blueness--the second floor of my parents's house saves me my ego. Outwards is my neighbor's house, though I don't know that I should use such an endearing term to describe that guy (I haven't met him yet). On it is the cast of my house's shadow, and it catches the fucker's window. I bet it makes him sad. Maybe as sad is me being unable to see the ground. I bet he wants to be able to see the sunlight. I bet the horizon looks nicer though.

It was brilliant and I'm simple, maybe. I haven't read Faulkner.

Were you going to call the garden trees or the birds crestfallen?
>My garden trees; soaked and drooping, crestfallen sulphur cockatoos huddle underneath their protruding branches.

no senpai u are a wonderful intelligent being
let us cast aside differences
kiss me

Call me plain, then. Sodomites are wicked. Old-fashioned wouldn't be right, though. No, just plain.

I like this one.

It's cold, pitch black, I can't see the fjord between the dead trees.

>a sparkle in the distance
>what is it
>gaze forward and down
>a small detail I can't make it out in the sunlight
>a pecker
>john is stroking his pecker

It's the motif of America; through a glazed window, a bonfire flickers some place in the far-from farm. The stars and stripes dance in the moonlight. I see now the American lifestyle.

Recommend me books written like this

What is colder: the frozen bars that cover the light of the darkness or the gaze of death through merciless night. I see a fire, bounded against its desire to die, it makes no difference to my soul, eaten by darkness, consumed by death.

Well that's my first one ever.

The blinds are drawn and nothing is visible. On the surface of the glossy blinds is a subtle amalgamation of hues, hazily fighting to form a coherent reflection. It fails. One can not see outside and nature's failure solitary lays inside,contorting the lone inhabitant.

6 tall pines blocking a fluorescently lit chain linked tennis court.

Trees, rocks, waves, grasses, seals, seabirds and dead fish in a sou'easter at night.

Outside, the plants are wiggling to a high-wind. Beyond, economy cars on a tall concrete lot are wrapped in Starbucks-cup-white light. The wind picks up. Crooning coyote gusts no longer--this is a real wolf-howl wind; we're talking Gingerbread Latte to Gingerbread Frappuccino, fast (no charge). My God, man! Would you look at those plants gyrate!

Go crash the party by loudly reading from Ulysses in their living room.

>Sunbeam on hill, eclipsing the mount and permeating through the crystal cold. Late afternoon glimmer

As the sun sets, the sunbeam is on the hill, then eclipsing the hill, then permeating through the hill. Are you sure eclipsing is the word you mean?

Delillo-esque