her life has felt more like a production than an existence. she laughs a bit too loudly, cries too easily, holds on a little too tightly. anything to not be left on the other side of the curtain. she doesn’t care enough to be considered genuine. she’s too exuberant to be jaded.

Self-taught and self-loved. He bloomed at seventeen and spent the next year searching for futilities. He thought he could wield the paintbrush like hunters wielded their bows and arrows. The monster was his meat. But setting brushstroke to gesso’d canvas felt weak and uninspired. He could no longer emulate his own strong strokes, feeding off the careful articulation through each eyelash dabble on the white background. His teacher told him to work on landscapes instead of self-portraits. He tried setting the easel in a meadow, thinking that he’d be the next Van Gogh and copy sunsets each evening.

Instead, Adrian undressed himself and offered his unbroken body to mealy worms and overgrown grass. Tickled his back. He smelled fresh. Sunk his fingers in damp earth, dirt underneath crescent fingernails. The sunset wound up painting him.

You are reanimated flesh. Let us whisper the thread that will hold you together, and we will weave your cloth from stale breath and memory.

Afraid of this distant, unromantic mortality, I constructed a world in which I was born from water, which was not, as I’m sure you can guess, very hard to do. The romantic in me did not want to delve into the depths of the millennia. He instead asked: does not the mother’s “water” break? Is this not a beginning from water? In Dutch amniotic fluid is called the “vruchtwater,” or, literally translated, “fruitwater,” the water from which something grows, or so I saw it. Before I was breathing or seeing, I was swimming in those fruitful waters, and it was those waters that forced my existence into fruition. Fruit. Water. I loved the words. And since I had come from water, it was only natural that I should continue to live in water, to bask in it, so that one day, should my life be snuffed out, or, more importantly, should I decide to take my life, the symmetry of my construction would be true, forever.

So the answer is simple, and hasn’t much changed since those early days of whimsy: if I were to commit suicide, it would be by drowning.

Anonymous said: waiting patiently. aka pining for u

ur wish has been granted


Anonymous said: i noticed on the site it says to register with with first name middle initial and surname but what if our character doesn't have a middle name (like because they're from a culture that doesn't use them?)

just register without the middle initial. when the site’s open.


We apologize for the delay but we want to assure everyone that TBO is opening but we are just waiting on our skinner. We know that this is highly inconvinient and we are extremely sorry, but this has also given us an opportunity to further expand on the culture and dynamics of the setting.

If anyone has questions about the the site process or something you want to see included, please inbox us. Your input is invaluable.