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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lili Leader-WilliamsFemale/United States Groups :iconddsuggestiondrive: DDSuggestionDrive
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Deviant for 6 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Random from DDs I've Featured

Literature
i'm sorry for only writing sad things,
but saturday night i wanted to offend god
into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone
into hearing the roar between my ears with me.
i'd like to write something you can put music to-
lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent.
but today what is most real to me
is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath.
empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long
for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only 
in the slamming of my heart.  an erratic beat
at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind
to someone throwing up in the bathroom
after too much beer pong and hard rock-
both are shameful to repeat in therapy
and i feel like i cannot stop ruining parties. 
needing steady hands for these atlas shoulders
that will not relax. staircases white like
imagined hospitals. thinking i should say
call me an ambulance. crying. not calling
an ambulance. not calling a taxi, i can't call
a taxi, i don't have money for a taxi, holding
my breath. 4, 7, 4. 4, 7, 4. in.
:icon1nkl1ng:1nkl1ng
:icon1nkl1ng:1nkl1ng 167 55
Literature
november is calling
I trace your ink-infused skin
with my wanting fingertips
and I remember the better
days. You were younger
once and I was sweeter
once, and we shared a
prison cell called love.
You are no longer baby-
faced and I have hair down
to my waist, and you smoke
cigarettes and you drink
whiskey because you want to
be a man’s man. You kiss me
sweetly for the fifth year
in a row, even though I
haven’t known what it’s like
to call you mine in four.
I can’t detach myself from
your wanting gaze, the way
you look at me when I shed
my skin. I can’t let go of your
laugh and your blue-green-grey
eyes, the way you smirk and pull
me close to your heat.
There is a tomahawk on your
arm and I trace its black lines
and the softness of your skin,
and I pray that it will not always
be this way.
:icon19seconds:19seconds
:icon19seconds:19seconds 66 30
Literature
grief on an answering machine
chemistry tells us
matter cannot be destroyed
but changes
from one form to another.
           i heard you today
           on old voicemails;
       the voice that kisses
the boundaries of being,
screaming the conservation of the soul,
tells me you are here
even when you are not
/ /
   it is only a sound.
i have remembered a plethora of them; searching
for the moments i can remember your nervous humming, your raucous prayers.
but i only know the staccato breaths of a starting engine
i have spoken sotto voce into the mouths of unripe girls
i hear lawnmowers screaming in yards they burned down to build a shopping mall
i fuck a boy to the sound of passing trains.
these are sounds to throw away, sounds i do not need
but your voice is not one of them
/ /
   mourning you is a second language
and i am stumbling through sentences.
i don’t know the word for ‘goodbye’
so teach m
:iconignotism:ignotism
:iconignotism:ignotism 112 27
Literature
The Great Francus
See, now, a house.  It’s a typical house, two storeys, one-car garage.  A small front lawn stretches out to the curb, with a ditch at the end, and a mid-sized maple tree in the middle.  It’s spring, so the leaves are coming back, the lawn’s looking fairly green.
Take a closer look at the house, past the red bricks and Leave It To Beaver near-perfection of the design.  Go further.  A living room with a 32-inch television and a couple of gaming systems; no blu-ray player yet, but give them time, it’s in the budget.  There’s a kitchen, with a rarely used breakfast bar, an impeccably clean white tiled floor, and a small table with that morning’s paper opened to the comics, an empty coffee cup beside it.  A dining room with a nice chandelier that’s there mainly for show, and candelabras on the long dining room table for a bit of class.  There’s a drawing room, too, with ni
:iconValdrin:Valdrin
:iconvaldrin:Valdrin 45 31
Mature content
Some Violence Required :iconleyghan:leyghan 26 41
Literature
Exhale
I love the marks that a woman’s clothes leave on her body. I love the red indents and the proof of a long day before she even opens her mouth.
Tight socks circumventing ankle bones. A watch cutting a bit too tightly around a pulse. The alluringly simple bra straps; wire pressing up into the impossibly soft undersides of breasts; the cryptic clasp nestled between shoulder blades. The imprint of lace and elastic on the taut tender tendon of the inner thigh. The geography of jeans around the hips and trailing along the legs like railroad tracks. The line on her cheek from when she fell asleep on the bus home.
I love the luxurious sigh when it all puddles to the floor, shedding this artificial skin. Remnants of weariness leave whispers on the body.
And after all she has been through, she still comes to me and allows me to trace these whispers with my fingertips, eyes, lips. She doesn't cover herself and doesn't hide and lets me in.
We leave the lights on.
:iconIndigoSkyes:IndigoSkyes
:iconindigoskyes:IndigoSkyes 162 75
Literature
Mercy
I don't want to die.
No one does, I suppose. It's a natural human instinct to keep on living. But that doesn't stop the hands of fate. The hands that, as soon as their cold fingertips brush against your skin, you're gone.
The hands of the ones they call Angels.
They aren't real angels. Real angels don't exist. Just as God doesn't exist. There are no benevolent beings with crystalline white wings and halos burning with heavenly fire - there is no supreme existence sitting on a golden throne watching from above. Not anymore, at least. If they ever did exist then we killed them long ago and as punishment, the universe created the Angels that we know now.
It was an accident. As are most things these days. Three hundred and then some years ago, back when people still went to church and prayed to whatever deity they had conjured up in their minds, it happened. The stories say it was a joint effort of an elite handful of scientists gathered from around the world. They had meant well; s
:iconlupus-astra:lupus-astra
:iconlupus-astra:lupus-astra 137 37
The Gap - Page 38 :iconperis-productions:Peris-Productions 273 45
Literature
jericho
she must have dreamed him,
assembled of slow pieces
that clutched
and called in the dark
moments;
she is a temple
and he is dismantling her
with chorused glories
that terrace and
wax.
he bleeds desire,
an ache to sculpt her;
a curse born of ruin,
a silence crafted sharp
in flickered glances
and in flame.
she must have known him,
borne witness as he
stormed and conquered
with shadows rampant
at his back
and she must have seen him
behind shut eyes;
not as he will be
nor as he is,
but as she
would have him;
arching hallelujahs
under the domes
of her doomed
city.
:iconLissomer:Lissomer
:iconlissomer:Lissomer 92 53
Literature
Monsanto Cafe
He looked up from his chemistry notes to see her staring at him intently from across the table. She sat with her hands clasped around a cup of dandelion tea, eyebrows furrowed and lips frowning bright red over the white china rim.
“Do you ever stop and think,” she said, slowly and purposefully, “that you could have been a binder?”
He looked down at the binder in his hands. She’d been staring at his notes, not at him. “Sorry, what?” he said, slightly annoyed.
“Just think. Your body is made of billions of atoms. What was the probability those exact atoms would come together to make you?”
“Your point being?”
She sipped pensively at her tea. “Well, what if something had happened? The chances those atoms would get like this –” she jabbed a finger at him “– right here, right now, were amazingly small. One mishap and they could have become anything else. You could have been a dog, an asteroi
:iconmatrixwrath8:matrixwrath8
:iconmatrixwrath8:matrixwrath8 118 69
Literature
Waiting
The summer of ‘67, funerals fanned out
like a poker hand in Mother’s family.
You could see she'd waited a lifetime
for this one, black dress in plastic,
handkerchief ironed and folded, ready.
She forced herself to touch the badge,
the service revolver he'd used, his Stetson,
sweat-stained on a hook in the hall.
She would conjure everything in time,
enough to rise above the casseroles,
the Jello salads melting in our kitchen,
hoarded tears poised above the glare
of Tupperware and Avon calling.
It was in the way she held her mouth,
her breath, waiting for something beautiful.
A childhood ago, summer nights,
her skin had prickled at the crunch of gravel,
his boots, hard across the floor,
the smells - leather, cigar smoke,
Macallan on his breath.
A five-year old wears innocence like iron
and a paper crown, shedding glitter.
She'd filled herself with crickets' song,
flown with fireflies beyond the glass,
as she waited for something beautiful.
:iconEmmaSloane:EmmaSloane
:iconemmasloane:EmmaSloane 52 46
Literature
Loki
We are born in pain, all of us. When that first breath of oxygen touches our lungs and it tastes of fire in our bodies, it is then we are known to be alive – screaming our indignation that this is the life we've been brought into, that this is how the world will greet us. With suffering. I was no different, whimpering softly, stunned at the sensation in my infant body, wondering why it must be that my entrance to this life hurt. It was only appropriate, then, that my birth as a god was through agony.
Sometimes, when walking home after dark, I'd play this scenario through in my head. I was raised to believe I'd be attacked by men. I knew how I kept the mace in the front pocket of my purse, although I'd been too timid to take the lid off and figure out how to actually use it. I was reckless in my disregard, knowing full well what I'd been taught growing up, and then discarding it the next moments with only the outside illusion of playing by the rules. Instead, I saw in my head what
:iconfainting-goat:fainting-goat
:iconfainting-goat:fainting-goat 127 41
Literature
en route
my body is the
abandoned bank
on main street;
my body is the
burnt hull of an
apartment complex
only now in repair;
my body is a
feeling of shame,
a pungent rot,
a score of roadkill
in half decay.
my body is migratory:
a flock of wearied birds,
a search for belonging,
the fat on my hips.
with too few windows
and a steep indoor climb,
my body is home.
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks 77 58
Literature
The Crying Of Birds
I pluck their calls from the sky,
Stuff them into my pocket like so many marbles.
Sometimes I cast them on the ground
And like runes they advise me,
Nudge me about things I already know.
Afterwards I’ll scoop them up and in cupped hands
Breathe gently into a cave of skin.
Then there will be music.
:iconFlutingspirit:Flutingspirit
:iconflutingspirit:Flutingspirit 68 26

Random from Accepted DD Suggestions

Scary Story Time :iconkilkennycat:kilkennycat 1,055 47
Literature
His lap was reserved for science...
i still see his hands
coated in soil
mud
dirt
playing god
coaxing seeds to life
bringing his creations to us
maybe that was his love
the calluses from wooden shovels
from making wooden fences
from the circle-purple grapes
the quarter-blueberries
the furry peaches
maybe he loved us
the same way the cat did
secretly perched atop my toddler bed
until dawn danced on my fluttering lids,
leaving before the morning sun
would make stark her black in the light
maybe he loved us
through the water and earth and wind
that fed his garden plants
maybe he loved us
with the force of sunlight
but we just never knew
:iconArbiterGirl:ArbiterGirl
:iconarbitergirl:ArbiterGirl 203 98
Literature
tense shifts
and here's the first letter:
there are some things in life you can't escape.
the feeling of his fingers entwined in yours,
for example,
and maybe the way the wind blows on your ears lightly,
teasing teasing teasing because it knows
you blush when your cheeks get cold and the tip of your nose goes red
and it knows
he's going to have to give it a kiss to warm it up
(also because he can't stand how adorable it looks).
she thinks that maybe there ought to be a coffee shop on this corner-
she tells him so, with a wide sweeping gesture that
knocks her scarf into his eyes
and he wears it like a mask and smiles-
but on the other hand, maybe not;
it could be a park, you know,
overlooking the bay right here, see?,
and the little children could watch the boats come in,
steaming toog toogs out to make them smile and clap and wave.
and he's watching with a half-smile
the way her eyes light up and brighten the lonely shoreline sidewalks,
and frankly,
he'd spend a lifetime making that corner i
:iconstraybutterflies:straybutterflies
:iconstraybutterflies:straybutterflies 104 26
recovery... :iconpeatcher:peatcher 312 72
Literature
Lessons for Today
Today in math class, they would be learning how to factor quadratic equations. Miss Gracie, called Mrs. G by her students, knew this because she had the lesson planned out meticulously across three-and-a-half sheets of college-ruled notebook paper, which sat neatly in a folder before her. She knew because, like with all her lessons, she had recited it in front of her dressing mirror last night, right before bed.
She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes left until class. Its tick, tick, tick was the only sound in the room.
She looked around the room. Nothing but the equation charts that she covered with long sheets of colored paper during tests (always to the dismay of the students) and Tu fui, ego eris. Latin. What you are, I was; what I am, you will be. She stared at it. She had written it out on a sheet of white cardstock and stuck it to the wall with blue tape on her first day. It seemed like a kind and encouraging quote, a reflection
:iconFalareste:Falareste
:iconfalareste:Falareste 141 59
2013, Acrylique, Utopia :iconabdportraits:ABDportraits 404 18
Literature
Let the Sparrows In
I.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
seven-seven-thirty-six.
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
The house,
with its branching hallways
and
overhanging décor
and
furniture rooted to the floor
is home
to
family, friends, the occasional
neighbor's kid
locked
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
the finches
follow.
Let the door's
deadbolt
loosen—let the door stand ajar
and
be let open
to
the night owls and
morning
larks;
let the doves
alone
to pirouette
in pairs in the iridescent
quiet.
Let the sparrows in.
II.
Framed on either side
:iconNichrysalis:Nichrysalis
:iconnichrysalis:Nichrysalis 173 142
Literature
At World's End
        LITTLE BOY
 clouds
                s
                k    s
                y    k
                s    y
                c    s
                r    c
                a    r
                p    a
                e    p
      boy girl  r    e
    c o n c r e t e  r
      
  &
:iconjswebb:jswebb
:iconjswebb:jswebb 195 74
My pink drop... :iconhikingboots:hikingboots 1,001 78
Literature
Our Duty
We swallowed the path home
Because we were hungry,
Though starving is an ongoing
Story, an empty bag
Dancing in the streets,
Full of an unfastened voice
Walking through the house,
Wind unchained, heart admonished.
Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,
That sleeping boat content to follow
The vacant waves, intervals
Of dying that we dare not interrupt,
And we watch the kind ear shrinking
From our charcoal docks; heaven
With a full stomach crawls away.
This is what we were put here for.
:iconMineralAccident:MineralAccident
:iconmineralaccident:MineralAccident 75 20
Remords posthume :iconherculanum:Herculanum 488 104
Mature content
Finders Keepers 1 :iconleyghan:leyghan 97 75
Literature
October
I only felt autumn's presence
In October, in Hamburg
A month after she was expected
Crisp leaves, warm light
Geese on the lawn by the lake
And loneliness
Stretching through short days and long nights
Heralds of winter's coming
Shoes worn thin by miles
I wander, a stranger, mute
Head full, heart singing
The love of dark trunks and bright leaves
Untempered by geography
Or language
:iconchildwoman:childwoman
:iconchildwoman:childwoman 119 50
Literature
A Short Visit
In the country,
the scarcity of humanity,
our ability to stand outside and be alone,
holds an undeniable appeal to me.
Even in the cold, the quiet can be
a great friend. The sun was out today,
pleasant on the skin. The wind had subdued
from last night's blowing. I sat in my
great-grandfather's metal lawn chair.
He kept this one outside the barn.
Told me once how he found a meteorite
in the chair. Said it hit the barn
and bounced right down to sit a spell.
Said it gave him a little shock,
a space-spark he called it,
when he picked it up from its resting spot.
How old was he then?
My age? I only recall an aged,
bald, weathered, cowboy who still preferred
to do his business in the outhouse
instead of the indoor room with water
from pipes. He told me
he knew when I was being born
because his knees itched from where
I would sit and his hands stung
from where he would spank me.
He and Granny shared a small house,
blown by the horrid western Oklahoma wind,
on a hill that overlooked their pond
:iconIago-de-Xibalba:Iago-de-Xibalba
:iconiago-de-xibalba:Iago-de-Xibalba 67 20
Mature content
All Truths :iconglossolalias:glossolalias 157 200

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Random from Lovely Words

Literature
Mastered
His task absorbs him,
he feels his body only
as periphery
-his fingers educated
by his long years in the craft.
:iconAlecBell:AlecBell
:iconalecbell:AlecBell 14 32
Literature
almost, but not quite.
to the boy with ghost hands:
                              his hands are not like yours,
                                            your teeth leave different scars.
love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;
                it only lasts a little while
                           where I end and you begin.
maybe you never belonged to me.
this will be the last piece I ever write about you.
to the boy with the butterfly tattoo:
                        you found love
            in the bathroom sink,
borrowing the past
&
:icondietcocaine:dietcocaine
:icondietcocaine:dietcocaine 17 10
Literature
On preparing to never let go
Walking slowly down the hall, arms filled with the day's mail, we spoke of morbid things.
She wants to be reduced to ash and I want to know if I can keep her on my mantle.
She looks at me sideways with a curious face and forgets her footsteps.
It's a little bit morbid, she tells me, deciding it's time to continue shuffling along,
but I think the way I'm trying to picture her perfect urn is probably worse.
There's nothing that I can think of that suits her, though,
and I wonder if I even know her.
Do I scatter you somewhere? You can't visit scatter.
(I think good daughters plant guilt in the carpet pile to trip upon.)
But she doesn't trip, instead she ruminates on how appalling it'd be to divide her in fourths:
she laughs as she's divvying up her body parts for our mantles.
I tell her we'll set up a custody schedule, but only between my closest sister and me;
we're the ones that take care of her. But in reality, I'm not planning on sharing.
She tells me she wants to be in the n
:iconBeyondJen:BeyondJen
:iconbeyondjen:BeyondJen 121 61
Literature
Integration by Parts
To trace, in deep gray, the curves and hooks
of silent numbers, is to invoke
the whorls of seashells, edges stiff
as curled rulers. Slide a graphite tip
along the length of a snake, and there
you'll find a bucket rising from a well
or leaves fluttering from a wind-tossed tree,
sketching arcs in the cooling air. Somewhere,
a scrap of paper rots at the root
of a creaking tower; somewhere,
a stallion, against a star-domed sphere, strikes
his angled hoof—and sings, and louder sings.
:iconFalareste:Falareste
:iconfalareste:Falareste 2 4
Literature
yellow
there’s this picture of some rooftops in new york
and over the rooftops there’s this rainbow
like a question mark lying on its side like it’s not even sure
that it should be a rainbow, it’s like when you exhale by accident really
softly on birthday candles and the flames ripple a little and everyone
thinks you made your wish even though it was just
a mistake, it’s a rainbow like that, like it happened
by mistake
and the picture reminds me of this one day when i was
looking out the window of ms. azeglio’s office when i was fifteen
as she talked on and on without
saying anything, talked about fixing me i
watched out the window and there wasn’t a rainbow not like
there is in the picture but there almost could have been one because
someone had let out balloons and they
kept going up all different colors too with their ribbons beckoning
and ms. azeglio she turned
her head to the window at one point and she saw
a yellow balloon floating up there by
i
:iconAquarius-Claire:Aquarius-Claire
:iconaquarius-claire:Aquarius-Claire 141 48
Literature
couldn't blue
i draw a picture of
tomorrow morning:
a man in a silver box sells
75 cent coffee and bad bagels.
his shirt is the kind of blue no one ever
tried to name a crayon after.
dust-plastic blue,
tried to love you
(couldn't)
blue.
and the morning is that same color,
the color of canned lightning-bugs and
unfiltered cigarettes and desire,
because that is all you
draw with couldn't blue.
i pay him 1.25 in change and purse-lint
so that a fourth-world factory can make more
silver boxes to sell more things
more stale blueberry muffins.
and he will keep gathering change
in 75 cent purse-lint increments
in the small sinking townships of
all the couldn't blue mornings.
and he will keep gathering the
ugly colors of
another side of desire
and he will wear those colors
on a shirt
those colors no one
liked enough
to name.
:iconAquarius-Claire:Aquarius-Claire
:iconaquarius-claire:Aquarius-Claire 346 116
Literature
His lap was reserved for science...
i still see his hands
coated in soil
mud
dirt
playing god
coaxing seeds to life
bringing his creations to us
maybe that was his love
the calluses from wooden shovels
from making wooden fences
from the circle-purple grapes
the quarter-blueberries
the furry peaches
maybe he loved us
the same way the cat did
secretly perched atop my toddler bed
until dawn danced on my fluttering lids,
leaving before the morning sun
would make stark her black in the light
maybe he loved us
through the water and earth and wind
that fed his garden plants
maybe he loved us
with the force of sunlight
but we just never knew
:iconArbiterGirl:ArbiterGirl
:iconarbitergirl:ArbiterGirl 203 98
Literature
Comfortless
Undo this work of theirs,
Absorb them as lies -
Poisonous minerals providing
Doubtful relief, but we prefer
The unqualified possible.
Any wish to amend our faults is met
With an open violence, each individual
Discovery of a moral sense leaves us
Commonplace - actual motives
Are an obvious relief.
Our task is the cultivation of consequences.
That calculated friendship denied
Repeatedly, that wet rag smothering
The face of beauty, and our nature
Justifies such severity.
:iconMineralAccident:MineralAccident
:iconmineralaccident:MineralAccident 1 4
Literature
146 pounds
my mother tells me that i should be ashamed
for dipping my baby carrots in salad dressing,
that my food doesn't need the salt i sprinkle on it.
my afternoon tea doesn't need any sugar, skip
the lemonade and drink the water instead.
do you really need that?
her sharp tone echoes like military orders in the face of combat.
she tells me that at my age, her jean size was half of mine
and i resist the urge to tell her that maybe that means she
had half the character i do.
shopping with her, she butts heads with a body-image complex,
telling me to quit fooling myself and pick the next size up.
i shock her time and time again when i cram my corners into
every article of clothing i selected on my own.
how will you ever get married?
& i wish i could tell her how boys have seen me naked
in the emotional sense of the word, how they have found
truth and honor ready to burst from my so-called "fat rolls."
she will never know that i am a garden with an unlocked gate
and that each o
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree 507 288
Literature
boys who love their grandmothers
never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.
he will be too gentle with your lips,
too sincere when he whispers blessings into your ears
pleading that he doesn't deserve you.
his tongue will not slither between your teeth.
instead, the heat of his mouth will melt your scar tissue
until there is no trace of your travels.
never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.
he knows patience.
you will try to convince him
that it is one of the many virtues
you don't yet possess,
but he will dig through the flesh in your ribcage
until he finds it lodged beneath everything
you're too scared to confess.
he will teach you forgiveness, remind you that you are not a mistake.
he will wipe the trails of tears that always seem to decorate your cheeks
and replace them with rose petals, saying that he chose the color red
to match the passion he knows flows through your veins.
never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.
he will trace the freckles on your skin
into constel
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree 1,597 766
Literature
The Wanderer
My world dissolves into autumn,
the shade and the fire draped about my throat
like so many jewels.
I met the mist as an old lover,
let the dew paint my lips
with the scent of harvest.
In a white memory, you are still walking away,
down that same road.
Your hair was shining like the fall.
Your shape in the fog beckons;
ghost or vision, I care not.
I lose myself.
:iconQuiEstInLiteris:QuiEstInLiteris
:iconquiestinliteris:QuiEstInLiteris 401 63

A thing DA just did: www.deviantart.com/journal/Dev… 

100%
35 deviants said Thoughts?
I've been so busy I didn't even realize I was published again until I'd gone to catch up on my new favorite online mag. :lol: Here's a link to the piece, if you're interested: No.

I've also submitted to Cahoodaloodaling's Issue 23: Up Yours! which is all about what makes us angry. And heaven knows there's enough to be angry about these days. Also considering trying my hand again at Up the Staircase Quarterly. The rejection notice I got last time was very encouraging, if such a thing can be said of rejection notices. 

As for the Wix acquisition:

This comment from nervene helps clear up why a partnership with a do-it-yourself site service can be beneficial to the technology portion of DA. I'm still not entirely sure how it will all suss out for the community, but we'll just have to see on that. 

I'm waiting for a reply from staff regarding search protections. I know they're busy, but hopefully someone clears that up as it is my personal concern about the change. 

To clarify - I'm not leaving DA. Even if search protections change, I'll just stop sharing work here and focus on commenting and interacting in other ways instead. Who knows, maybe I'll become a fanfic writer and finally *actually* get popular. ;) 

:heart: Lili

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:iconrtnightmare:
RTNightmare Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
Hey! Are you still around?
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:iconkreepingspawn:
KreepingSpawn Featured By Owner Mar 5, 2017  Professional Digital Artist
Also, a belated but heartfelt thanks for having my back in the forums.  ;} :hug:
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:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
:heart:
:hug:

Thanks for the love, dear!
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:iconandorada:
Andorada Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2017
:iconhrtplz:
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:icongiusynuno:
giusynuno Featured By Owner Jan 25, 2017  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
I'm so sorry this comes so late, but Thank you so much for faving! It means the world to me:heart:

I've been away due to office being crazy and I totally missed the start of DD suggestion drive /(O__O)\ I hope I can find time to participate this time, too :D
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