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Audio: synthesiser music

ABACUSYNTH by ELIAS JARZOMBEK [2022]

Abacusynth is a synthesizer inspired by an abacus, the ancient counting tool used all around the world. Just like an abacus is used to learn the fundamentals of math, the Abacusynth can be used to explore the building blocks of audio synthesis.

#machines

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#eels

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how do people come up with titles?

why can't we just number fics like classical composers did with their stuff?

"tentacle porn No. 8 in [fandom], [pairing], op. 57"

that would solve so many problems

#i do be doing this sometimes #2 theory 2 harmony

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#architecture

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WHERE was the finn as moses parallel in the rest of the sequels!! there was so much of it in tfa!!! WHERE was his Red Sea moment!!! where was his arc where he comes back to his people to free them!!!!! WHERE ABRAMS AND JOHNSON WHERE

#star wars #i got so mad about this i wrote #hanging the moon

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double-taked during my morning read because that's my fic on the rec list! ^-^ thank you @queuest

#testimonials #men to the moon and rockets to russia

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Dazed Magazine june/july 2006

#sent to me #robot porn

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I have one of those robot vacuums but there's a mirror in the house low enough to the ground that the lidar scanner can see a nonexistent room in the reflection so on the navigation map it's generated I have a room that doesn't exist that I have to forbid the vacuum from entering.

#sent to me #1 rogue street

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Trying to get a glass of water but i cant. The water goes up

#1 rogue street

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Kill me once, shame on you. Kill me twice, how did you did that.

#time loop

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It's not WIP Wednesday, but have some sad small Cassian amd Brasso anyway.

After his mother’s funeral half of Ferrix had crammed into their shambling rooms, a confused amalgamation of older tenements into a semi-respectable, union-owned family unit that somehow managed to be spread across three floors without ever filling one. Cass had liked it as a boy, squirrelling along its corridors with whoever else’s children were there or shadowing Brasso’s mother as she narrated her day in to him in Basic at half her normal speed and twice everyone else’s. He’d liked that you could only reach Brasso’s room, a strange triangular attic that was wedged up on the third floor and had no business being part of the property at all, by a single steep ladder, and had patiently taught him how to build a snare at the top of it in case of enemy attack.

When he’d disappeared during the wake Brasso thought he’d retreated up there, but instead found Clem and Cass arguing at the door to his mother’s room.

“Mate, you can’t be here,” Clem was saying. “It’s private.”

“Brasso doesn’t mind,” Cassian said, very confidently for someone who hadn’t spoken to Brasso at all that day and didn’t know he was currently making his way down the corridor with a tray full drinks.

“Let’s ask him then, shall we?”

“You don’t need to - ”

“Sorry about this, Brass,” Clem said, leaning round the door. “He’s not touched anything. He’s just a bit upset.”

“Because they’re doing it wrong - ”

“I told you, Cass, it’s different here. Where’s she going to find a mountain in this place?”

“It’s not in this place,” Cassian insisted, and when Brasso made it through the door he saw that Cassian was perched on the end of his mother’s bed, spine erect and face resolutely turned away from Clem, eyes focused intently on an overflowing plate of food of the dresser. “Brasso, when someone dies - ”

“What people believe happens when someone dies,” Clem said gently, “on Fest.”

“On Fest,” parroted Cassian, mustering a level of adolescent scorn that suggested he was, at most, one name day away from becoming ungovernable, “everyone knows that after they die people have to go up the mountain. And it’s difficult, so they need to take things with them. Like food and stuff. And then you need to watch to make sure that they take it, so you know they’re ok, they’re on their way.” He didn’t move, didn’t turn, just applied all his considerable attention to the food, which on closer inspection was only the centre of a wider offering that included an old drip lamp, barely burning, and a note in an awkward hand in a language Brasso didn’t recognise. Clem shrugged apologetically, a silent promise to deal with this and leave, but Brasso quite liked it. Outside, people were telling him how good his mother was, and how gone. In here, he was just babysitting Cassian again. His mother could well be in the other room, laughing with the Daughters of Ferrix and about to call Brasso to ask where the kaff was.

“Where’s the mountain?” he asked.

“You can’t see it until you’re dead.”

“What’s it called?”

“You wouldn’t be able to say it,” Cassian said, haughty, which Brasso was beginning to realise meant he’d forgotten the word in his own language.

“Okay. What’s that say?”

“Oh.” Cassian wavered slightly, his eyes cutting quickly to Brasso, his posture wavering. “It’s just a message for her to take. I thought she’d like to have someone to talk to.”

That got Brasso somewhere in the stomach and somewhere round the throat at same time. HIs mother was dead. She was going to the next place, whatever that was. And here was one of the neighbourhood kids - someone she barely even knew, really - concerned enough that he’d found her someone to talk to and wanted to make sure she got on her way.

His mother is so good, and so gone.

His face did something that prompted Clem to take custody of the tray. “I’ll take this through,” he said, and then: “is one yours?” Brasso nodded dumbly then took one of the mugs and put it on the dresser next to the rest.

Cassian hummed approvingly. “I told you he didn’t mind.”

“How long should I tell people you’ll be waiting?” Clem asked, and Cassian chirped “three days” so confidently that Brasso huffed out a laugh for the first time in days.

They didn’t manage three days: Brasso got called away and Cassian fell asleep, but after everyone was gone Brasso gave into the childish urge to curl up in his mother’s bed and in the morning the drip lamp had gone out, the kaff had curdled and Cassian’s note had found its way to the floor, so maybe someone had been through. Maybe his mother had her message and was on her way to the mountain, wherever it was.

#brassian #andor #fic rec #the WEIGHT this gives maarva's brick #helping each other's mums along their way ;_;

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mutuals can open my protective plating and play with my wires and say its to check for viruses but we both know its just to put your hands in my organs

#droidcaptain #i've done this with like two or three droidcaptain fics lmao #ymatmiu #is probably the one that best combines them

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Characters being compared to dogs always use terriers or pitbulls or something for their metaphors. “They grab on and they don’t let go” “They keep worrying at it until it’s dead” etc.

Anyway, I want to see collies used as metaphors. Albert Payson Terhune style. “He was like an attack dog–making slash-and-run attacks, cutting them up worse every time, never staying in range long enough to get hurt but circling back over and over.”

#reasons i have called two different stories #the size of the fight in the dog

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Oh you're writing a gay smut fic with a fantasy setting? Don't forget to give one of your characters a

#the doksany stories

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do you think insight can be gained about an author from the stories they write?

no. authors are like squids and can only be understood through spirited but ultimately futile combat

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decided to make my own post rather than bothering op (original)

#this is like all my fics