File: late.swf-(2.1 MB, 1064x300, Loop)
[_] ; ; :v 10/09/17(Mon)16:14:05 No.3286065
I'm so tired.
Marked for deletion (old).
>> [_] Anonymous 10/09/17(Mon)16:28:37 No.3286068
>>3286065
Hang in there fren.
>> [_] gravelord 10/09/17(Mon)16:40:11 No.3286072
>>3286065
we need more clocks
>> [_] Anonymous 10/09/17(Mon)16:46:10 No.3286074
>>3286065
welcome back, :v
>> [_] :v 10/09/17(Mon)17:21:29 No.3286083
>>3286068
thanks
>>3286072
clocks are a good way to pass the time
>>3286074
>welcome back
I never went anywhere, I never go anywhere. I'm stuck.
>> [_] Anonymous 10/09/17(Mon)18:18:51 No.3286093
>>3286083
aren't we all ;_;
at least we're stuck on /f/
>> [_] recipe inside 10/09/17(Mon)19:36:00 No.3286109
>>3286083
>I never went anywhere
Then why so lurk-y lately? Was beginning to wonder if you went full-anon on us.
Lemme try to get things right again with a recipe.
Anonymous Rice Crispies
ingredients:
1 box Rice Crispies
1 computer (tablet or mobile acceptable)
1 box Kleenex
Pour contents of Rice Crispies box into large bowl
Set in lap and munch aimlessly while shitposting on favorite board.
Use Kleenex as necessary to wipe away tears/urine/spittle etc.
Single serve.
>> [_] Anonymous 10/09/17(Mon)21:06:54 No.3286125
hey :v you wrote "aren't you late for someting" instead of "something"
>> [_] :v 10/09/17(Mon)21:28:05 No.3286128
>>3286125
>Jamaican me crazy mon
I'm abusing the shit out of my sleep aids at the moment it's a miracle I was able to make
anything at all.
but maybe its like the imperfections that make it what it is like totally the raw organic process
of creation maaaan.
>> [_] dedo !drZ3h7esek 10/09/17(Mon)22:01:14 No.3286139
>>3286065
just hang in there :v, it'll stop eventually
>> [_] Anonymous 10/10/17(Tue)02:38:13 No.3286177
>>3286139
We'll all stop eventually
>> [_] Anonymous 10/10/17(Tue)02:50:47 No.3286181
>>3286065
>am i late
yeah. for sleep. should have been down about an hour 45 ago. yet here i am
>> [_] Anonymous 10/10/17(Tue)05:34:42 No.3286198
We, the guilty.
When the King come down, to trumpet sound
The dead men share our bread.
Catch you now the Martyr's crown,
When blind men's tears are shed.
There is a man at the end of the road, whose mouth is -not- closed.
He is screaming the sound of the sleepless, who do not while in the witching hour.
We wait, prisoners to the block. We wait for fate to come, in the quiet. We wait to be called
home.
They used to print on execution blades, "Cast In The Name, Ye Not Guilty."
Who are we becoming?
I say, we the Guilty.
