Its spiky, spooky appearance speaks for itself. Perfect for representing a metal, punk, or mysterious atmosphere. It's certain to pique your curiosity. Whether it's the time of year when pumpkins / gresskar have been harvested or not.

You will hear the tribal drums of the origins, deep within your inner ocean, as you write with this font — in the land of men, where they eat Pain like we eat Bread… der de spiser Smerte som vi spiser Brød… Beneath this troposphere of fire, the rhythm of the drum breathes you in while the vigil. The nuclear crickets chirp and glow like bionic fireflies and the stream of letters continues. Satan Claus’ spiked reindeer gallop, gripping the too-heavy gases that crackle and squeak in the sky beneath the hooves of the wooden beasts. On the shelf, hylle, a book was stored and told the true story of this cavalcade which on hot days spread silvery sparks in the air, the clouds coughed from lack of nitrogen.

All that cloud could be deduced from this was that this event, written since the beginning of time, was a record of a future place-time, nestled in the spiral of space-time. From this earth, which oozes tarry odor, emerged a cherry-red flower of metal with sharp points — kirsebærrød metallblomst med skarpe spisser. Through the fiery winds, she huddled with her leaves to protect herself from the bubbling, black, steaming muddy earth. It had a chemical odor of felt-tip pen with a grape or resin flavor, with a hint of hardwood. Its thorns were attempts to bridge its surroundings, in vain. Far from being vines, they resembled more like stunted, healing tips, without bulbous terminal’s cancer state.

This metallic flower with tiger motifs kept its roots buried, invisible, unacknowledged... Animals tolerant of this burning atmosphere sat around her to hear her stories, her legends, her timeless gossip about the adventures of demigods and villains. While they listened to Her, they stopped breathing, they stopped aging, they were motionless in a kind of ambient clinging to the bubble — klamrer seg til boblen. Impossible to distinguish them from a statue, they wander in limbo, listening to these stories full of words, full of glyphs. The tapping of the clouds, one key of the keyboard at a time, is the legend of this cetacean who wanted to join his family in space and who conquered the tropospheric fire by swimming through it — hvalen overvant den troposfæriske ilden ved å svømme gjennom den. They are Toasted. De er Ristet.

🥫🕈 amen.

Published the July 21st, 2026.
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