Not enough hands, not even nearly enough

Not enough hands, not even nearly enough

this game is art is a game is art is a game is art is a game is art is a game is art is a game is art is a game broccoli

Days, when sitting in a corner and reading is not an option as all the books are made of empty coconut shells. Days, when making sauce for your pasta would drive you to write cryptic messages on the walls with said sauce. Days, when the mere sight of a headcrab makes you lose control and point at the ceiling and yell SWEET SWEET PILLOW and crawl into a corner and read books and the books are made of empty coconut shells and are illegible and written with pasta sauce. Days, when you wake up and the time is 51:3/7.

No, I don’t get them either. Yet on occasion, it becomes necessary to crawl into someone else’s skin and observe your surroundings for a while. This may or may not have the previously described effects, but it sure as shit has to be very similar. As an example, you do not, for heaven’s sake, make a game called “i made this. you play this. we are enemies” if you don’t have either grandiose plans for taking over the world or writing books with pasta sauce.

Once more: http://www.secrettechnology.com/madethis/enemy6.html. I won’t even attempt to explain it. Provided you’re not prone to psychosis, go now. Feel the ashes. Go and think. You won’t have to do that again this month, I promise.

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