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Due to the actions of particularly persistent spammers and trolls, we will be banning disposable email addresses from today onward.
*as leto lays dying in the cave long after duncan and siona leaves*
WE'RE NOT GONNA MAKE IT!
NO! WE'RE NOT GONNA MAKE IT!
WE'RE NOT GONNA MAKE IT, ANYMOOOOOREE!
~Still in the park~
~A crisp winter's day~
~Laying on a blanket~
~Paul~
Paul set the phone in the crook of his arm -- still folded behind his head -- as he pulled his knees up from the picnic blanket. "Where at, Ghanima?" His other arm fell away from his body into the grass...
~Early morning~
~Crisp air~
~Cool grass~
~Paul~
Some days have a distinct roll in the gut, in which a certain wordless serenity bubbles from the ganglia to the mind, and Paul took a sigh to the air as he grunted and laid upon a grassy knoll. Central Park, or such. For some reason...
well, to be absolutely fair, i'm taking it literally, as in, 'will i get reprimanded if i start blasting this around co-workers?' but, no biggy wigglies, thanks. i just think it's funny to self-censor sh*t and f**k on the sfw side
~That weekend~
~After a shared text~
~Chani's Condo~
~Paul~
He was sent an address, and of course to someone as imaginative as Paul, he ran through likelihoods as numerous as the steps he took and the potholes his bus hit. Evening, the day after he absolutely destroyed Feyd in a...