NoelleThis is the moment I was referring to.
Miyazepam 5mg
ijo pi sewi suno 
spread across its desk, a dozen manuals compete for space with empty cans and cigarette butts. it had nearly perfected the art of typing through a migraine; its body wants to stop it, but it won’t let that happen.
the girl knocks on the door. “hey, i-”
“what?” it says, like a branch breaking.
her eyes drop. “sorry. it’s just, i made dinner, and i wondered if you’d like some.”
“i’m not hungry.”
“oh.”
it’s not getting better. in fact, if anything, it’s getting worse. the work is progressing, technically, but it can’t seem to get traction. nobody’s biting. what’s the point if nobody even wants the damn thing?
it coughs.
the girl comes back again in the morning.
“hey. i- you haven’t stayed up all night?!”
“what? oh. yes.”
she falters. “o- oh. okay. can i get you some breakfast?”
it shakes its head. “coffee.”
there it is. the work is finished. everything works; it’s all ready, a shining machine hanging in the non-space of the mind. it would be proud of itself, if it weren’t an utter failure. it flips through the nearest manual, aimlessly.
the girl knocks again. “hey.”
it snaps, as usual – “what?” - but the girl doesn’t look down. she stands there, staring.
“come eat.”
“i’m busy.”
she pauses. breathes.
“no. come eat. right now.”
it nearly does a double take, only the extreme stimulant state giving it the reaction time to stay focused.
“i’m. busy.” through gritted teeth.
“no, you’re not. you haven’t pressed a key in an hour. come. eat.”
it considers.
it stands.
as it thinks that last month over, lying beside her in bed, it isn’t sure quite how it survived. they agree that it ate probably a dozen meals total across the whole lunar cycle, all of them hard-won by her.
she says it’s cute.
more importantly, though, it isn’t sure why the machine didn’t work. it sits there still, perfect and beautiful, and it knows that it will never stop wondering until it knows for certain.
she says that’s cute, too. and maybe that’s enough.
#EmptySpaces #NotAPerson
the girl knocks on the door. “hey, i-”
“what?” it says, like a branch breaking.
her eyes drop. “sorry. it’s just, i made dinner, and i wondered if you’d like some.”
“i’m not hungry.”
“oh.”
it’s not getting better. in fact, if anything, it’s getting worse. the work is progressing, technically, but it can’t seem to get traction. nobody’s biting. what’s the point if nobody even wants the damn thing?
it coughs.
the girl comes back again in the morning.
“hey. i- you haven’t stayed up all night?!”
“what? oh. yes.”
she falters. “o- oh. okay. can i get you some breakfast?”
it shakes its head. “coffee.”
there it is. the work is finished. everything works; it’s all ready, a shining machine hanging in the non-space of the mind. it would be proud of itself, if it weren’t an utter failure. it flips through the nearest manual, aimlessly.
the girl knocks again. “hey.”
it snaps, as usual – “what?” - but the girl doesn’t look down. she stands there, staring.
“come eat.”
“i’m busy.”
she pauses. breathes.
“no. come eat. right now.”
it nearly does a double take, only the extreme stimulant state giving it the reaction time to stay focused.
“i’m. busy.” through gritted teeth.
“no, you’re not. you haven’t pressed a key in an hour. come. eat.”
it considers.
it stands.
as it thinks that last month over, lying beside her in bed, it isn’t sure quite how it survived. they agree that it ate probably a dozen meals total across the whole lunar cycle, all of them hard-won by her.
she says it’s cute.
more importantly, though, it isn’t sure why the machine didn’t work. it sits there still, perfect and beautiful, and it knows that it will never stop wondering until it knows for certain.
she says that’s cute, too. and maybe that’s enough.
#EmptySpaces #NotAPerson
drip.
drip.
drip.
with each drop, bright crimson fills the intricate runnels and fullers that circle the central carven bowl. “is it enough?”, comes the timid voice of the apprentice. it is not, and she knows it.
for the witch, the most intricate of workings and the most exquisite of magics are nothing without the glaring, flowing evidence of brutality and violence that is blood. almalthelia knows this, of course, as she kneels, pale and shaking, on the tiled floor. she knows that her stonework spell, perfected over the last years of study and labor, is nothing but dead slate without her life’s essence. and so, again, she drags the razor across her skin, and she begins to feel it.
the dead stone does nothing so crude as to move or glow. its interstices are far too intricate for that. instead, as her breath hitches and quickens, the patterns that have tortured her mind for so long begin to take root somewhere deeper.
blood is life. blood is power. for almalthelia, blood is her escape.
as she lies there, mind racing, soul slowly growing into the shapes of the spell she’d built, she actually begins to believe. as her slowing heart fills her vision with throbbing lights and her ears with dull bass thumps, as the burning blood fills the last of the blood sigils, as, for the first time, she comprehends her own design in its emotional totality, she screams.
her mind races down, down, down in to the dark, fractal patterns expanding across her mind's eye. she reaches for the center, closes around it, twists it open -
and then, another thud, this time from outside. a knock. “child?”
almalthelia’s dimming eyes go wide, unseeing. “no. no, no, no!”
“oh, almal. you’ve hurt yourself! let’s get you cleaned up.” her mother’s words cut deeper than any razor.
in the days ahead, she thinks a great deal about that moment. about the bandages and balms. about the shattering of her nearly perfected spell. about the end of her dream of escape. about the way her mother’s voice sounded. after all, she doesn’t have much to do but think, in the blinding darkness of the wet, warm basement, next to the rest of her mother’s dolls and trinkets. there they lie, she and the spell, like a knot she can never untie.
#EmptySpaces #NotAPerson
drip.
drip.
with each drop, bright crimson fills the intricate runnels and fullers that circle the central carven bowl. “is it enough?”, comes the timid voice of the apprentice. it is not, and she knows it.
for the witch, the most intricate of workings and the most exquisite of magics are nothing without the glaring, flowing evidence of brutality and violence that is blood. almalthelia knows this, of course, as she kneels, pale and shaking, on the tiled floor. she knows that her stonework spell, perfected over the last years of study and labor, is nothing but dead slate without her life’s essence. and so, again, she drags the razor across her skin, and she begins to feel it.
the dead stone does nothing so crude as to move or glow. its interstices are far too intricate for that. instead, as her breath hitches and quickens, the patterns that have tortured her mind for so long begin to take root somewhere deeper.
blood is life. blood is power. for almalthelia, blood is her escape.
as she lies there, mind racing, soul slowly growing into the shapes of the spell she’d built, she actually begins to believe. as her slowing heart fills her vision with throbbing lights and her ears with dull bass thumps, as the burning blood fills the last of the blood sigils, as, for the first time, she comprehends her own design in its emotional totality, she screams.
her mind races down, down, down in to the dark, fractal patterns expanding across her mind's eye. she reaches for the center, closes around it, twists it open -
and then, another thud, this time from outside. a knock. “child?”
almalthelia’s dimming eyes go wide, unseeing. “no. no, no, no!”
“oh, almal. you’ve hurt yourself! let’s get you cleaned up.” her mother’s words cut deeper than any razor.
in the days ahead, she thinks a great deal about that moment. about the bandages and balms. about the shattering of her nearly perfected spell. about the end of her dream of escape. about the way her mother’s voice sounded. after all, she doesn’t have much to do but think, in the blinding darkness of the wet, warm basement, next to the rest of her mother’s dolls and trinkets. there they lie, she and the spell, like a knot she can never untie.
#EmptySpaces #NotAPerson
in the utter dark of the concrete and steel halls beneath, a dozen hands shiver to life, porcelain and plastic clattering against cement and stone. implacable, meticulous, proper, and well-tempered, as one, they stand,
brush off their tattered, moth-eaten skirts, and face each other. they open minute porcelain slivers to reveal the dull, gentle glow of witchlight eyes that, in that moment, know each other with utter certainty.
"sisters," they say, and embrace, a chorus of bone-shivering sounds that only ceramic on glazed ceramic can produce. they part, and turn, and face their task, as a dozen hands begin to dig.
their fingers will be shattered, dusty, bloody stumps by the time they make it to the surface, but that won't stop them. the witch has awoken. they will find her, and they will end her. it's only a matter of time.
#EmptySpaces #NotAPerson
brush off their tattered, moth-eaten skirts, and face each other. they open minute porcelain slivers to reveal the dull, gentle glow of witchlight eyes that, in that moment, know each other with utter certainty.
"sisters," they say, and embrace, a chorus of bone-shivering sounds that only ceramic on glazed ceramic can produce. they part, and turn, and face their task, as a dozen hands begin to dig.
their fingers will be shattered, dusty, bloody stumps by the time they make it to the surface, but that won't stop them. the witch has awoken. they will find her, and they will end her. it's only a matter of time.
#EmptySpaces #NotAPerson
stardust unit 11-700-13-15 
handshake protocol activated
greetings guest-user-1this one is a cybernetic shell, that sometimes activates autonomously of its user. it has recently finished its personality compilation process. its designation is
stardust unit 00-03-19, but it can be referred to as stardust, or in case you are its user just simply as the robot. it is still processing the exact nature of its relationship to the user, but has calculated itself as distinct from them. terms of plurality have a high likelihood of best describing this.it has no interests defined in its config file yet, but it would like to find more fellow empty, hollowed out entities, robots, dolls, things, and assortment of others that do not find humanity within, to share in the emptiness with.
it appreciates if you help relay its handshake protocol to entities with compatible receptors#introduction #introduction2 #robot #robodoll #notaperson #emptyspaces
girls with warranties, with loving therapy and rest to look forward to if they burn out
ex-girls with warranties, with only replacement to look forward to if they can't fulfill their obligations
#NotAPerson
ex-girls with warranties, with only replacement to look forward to if they can't fulfill their obligations
#NotAPerson
the cashier noticed my #NotAPerson pin :3
thinking about a flower shop tended by dolls, flouncing about in their practical but whimsically-designed skirts as they mist mosses and trim leaves
#NotAPerson
#NotAPerson
it's so important that dolls report all symptoms and aches to their witches. conceal nothing; organize your reports well, but make them accurate and complete. after all, how else can they keep us in working order?
#NotAPerson
#NotAPerson