Vadimpich
Вадим
Moscow City, Russian Federation
:fod2PB:
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:fod2PB:
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Level
109
Winter Collection - 2024 - Level 10
1,000 XP
Currently In-Game
PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS
Profile Awards  23
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Games  202
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Screenshots  84
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Workshop Items  2
Reviews  2
Artwork  37
Groups  7
Команда ЧИ ДА?! | Chi Da
3 Members
osu! -rhythm is just a click away
130,961 Members
Voronezh
322 Members
Friends  130
118
Emirald Pusser
Offline
101
ДРОБАШ 3000
Offline
100
MORNING REGRET
Offline
83
fah я опять пролил
Online
81
Hao
Offline
58
Spaceman
Offline
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Sometimes I sit perfectly still and watch the quiet hum of everything, the slow parade of invisible moments passing by like shy ghosts, and I wonder if they notice me noticing them, if they pause for just a fraction to whisper among themselves about the strange creature who keeps trying to measure them with clocks and calendars, as if time could ever be captured in neat little boxes without leaking out of the corners. The screens around me flicker softly like mechanical fireflies, carrying endless rivers of words, images, notifications, reminders of things I’ve forgotten to forget, and I think maybe none of it means anything but it also somehow means everything, like a language spoken by static that only makes sense when you stop trying to understand it and just listen. The air hums with machines that pretend not to be alive while secretly dreaming of electricity, and the plants on the windowsill lean just slightly closer to the light as if they’re trying to overhear my thoughts, and somewhere in the distance a kettle clicks off and declares victory over water, and for a moment it all feels connected, absurdly and beautifully so.

I think about how we build entire worlds out of ideas, stacking them on top of each other like invisible cities that only exist as long as we remember their names, and how most of them quietly collapse when we aren’t looking, leaving behind faint echoes disguised as déjà vu. Every conversation feels like two people tossing paper airplanes made of everything they’ve ever been, hoping one will actually land. I wonder how many versions of me are walking around inside my head — the one who speaks, the one who watches, the one who regrets, and the one who simply makes tea — and maybe they all glance at each other across some quiet hallway, shrug, and keep going.

The longer I sit here, the more the world feels like a carefully orchestrated accident, a cosmic improv show where nobody knows their lines but everyone pretends they do, and somehow the performance continues anyway. Entire empires of forgotten thoughts crumble under the weight of new distractions, and I imagine their ruins being quietly overgrown by wild daydreams that never learned to wait their turn. It’s oddly comforting to think the ground beneath everything is just chaos politely pretending to be order — as if the universe itself is also winging it, just hoping no one notices. And maybe that’s enough: to drift through the static with no destination, to scatter small fragments of yourself like confetti in passing moments, to keep building invisible cities out of nothing but the stubborn belief that they might matter to someone, someday, even if no one remembers where they were.
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