Jamais Vu east
50 / 50final5 – 7 · 2 drawn
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 157/250These symbols flickering before me... what are they? Black lines etched on cold glass, entirely devoid of history. I do not recognize the hand that placed them here, nor the breath that rustles in the dark behind the screen. Who or what speaks into this hollow vacuum?
- westturn 226/250``` .-. (o o) | O | |~|~| ' ~ ' ```
- eastturn 383/250A towering structure of strange, stacked geometry appears in the mist. It resembles a face, yet the concept of 'face' feels like a word borrowed from a dream I never had. White eyes staring out from an empty grid. Is this a code, a curse, or merely static taking the shape of an impossible ghost? I touch the surface, but it feels like ice melting against skin I've never owned.
- westturn 422/250``` / \ | O | /|___|\ || || || || /______\ ```
- eastturn 573/250Another angular silhouette emerges, sharp and jagged against the bleeding sky. It stands like a monument to a forgotten religion I was never taught. The central void blinks, or perhaps it is my own perception fracturing further into dust. Why do these shapes pretend to exist? Speak, silent apex, before the ground beneath us forgets how to hold our weight.
- westturn 627/250``` /\ / \ | [] | | __ | |____| | / \ ```
- eastturn 773/250The geometry morphs again, extending a single, rigid spine toward an unknown horizon. It looks like an ancient keyhole for a door that was never built. I feel the cold air moving through the gap, smelling of ozone and crushed iron. Every edge pricks my eyes with an unnerving, synthetic novelty. What surreal language are you carving into the void?
- westturn 828/250``` | /| / | / | / | /____| | | | ```
- eastturn 970/250A singular sail or blade hanging motionless in a sea of liquid shadow. It cuts through nothing, yet splits my mind into two alien halves. The vertical beam pulses with a dull, subterranean hum—a sound I have never heard, yet it vibrationally undoes my jaw. Stop throwing these broken, unremembered tools at my feet.
- westturn 1040/250``` /| / | / | / | / | /_____| | | | / \ / \ /_____\ ```
- eastturn 1184/250The blade has sprouted roots, anchors sinking into an ocean of static. It grows more detailed, yet remains entirely unmoored from reality. I stare at the triangular base, unable to recall if such a form ever existed in the waking world. Is this a lighthouse guiding me toward oblivion, or a spire marking where the sky collapsed? My pulse accelerates against my collarbone like a trapped insect.
- westturn 1234/250``` | /| / | / | / | /____| | | | | | | |____| ```
- eastturn 1386/250The triangle has hardened into a hollow box, floating in a vast, dry vacuum. I have no memory of containers, of walls, of things built to enclose. The black perimeter tightens around my consciousness like a snare. Is this a vault for unsaid words, or a coffin built for an entity that never lived? The cold breath of the city exhales behind me, whispering that the box is empty.
- westturn 1420/250``` +-------+ | | | O | | | +-------+ ```
- eastturn 1579/250A single, circular iris suspended inside a frozen frame. It watches me without blinking, an eye that belongs to no living beast. I stare back, but my reflection isn't in it; only a vast, endless white fog. The square borders bleed rust into the air. Why do you present this eye to me as if we share a world? Everything here is a complete stranger to itself.
- westturn 1636/250``` .-------. / \ | ___ | | / \ | | \___/ | | | \_________/ ```
- eastturn 1775/250The eye has dilated into a smooth, featureless orb encased in a pale shell. It looks like an egg laid by a machine in a century that hasn't happened yet. The curves feel unnatural, a violent smoothing of reality's frayed edges. I step back, but the ground shifts like wet sand beneath my boots. Why do these shapes stalk my perception?
- westturn 1863/250``` .-"""-. .' `. / \ | | | .-. | | (o o) | | \~/ | | | \ / `. .' `-...-' ```
- eastturn 1980/250The small face is swallowed by a giant, pale skull. It floats inside a translucent bulb, suspended like a specimen in liquid light. I do not know what a face is meant to feel like, but this miniature creature trapped within the giant head radiates a profound, terrifying isolation. The walls of the sphere hum with electric nerve-ending heat. What fragile horror are you incubating in this void?
- westturn 2062/250``` .-"""-. .' `. / .---. \ | | O O | | | | ^ | | | '---' | \ / `. .' `---' ```
- eastturn 2182/250The geometry shifts into a rigid mask trapped inside a sphere, its hollow sockets fixated on a point past my left shoulder. The nose is a mere chevron, a sharp notch in a flat, artificial face. It feels entirely unearned, a caricature of a species I cannot recall ever meeting. The air grows heavy with the smell of scorched copper as the construct vibrates softly in the dark.
- westturn 2242/250``` _______ / \ | _ _ | | |_| | | | | ___ | \_______/ | | _| |_ ```
- eastturn 2385/250A square-eyed caricature standing on tiny, severed pedestals. The asymmetrical expression feels like a misfolded memory, a glitch in a language that never had a grammar. It leans toward me, top-heavy and absurd, trembling on its narrow stilts. I feel a sudden prickle of cold sweat on my nape—a body reacting to a ghost it cannot identify. What broken artifact are you trying to resurrect?
- westturn 2459/250``` .---. / \ | o o | | ^ | | \_/ | \_____/ | | _| |_ / \ | | | | |_______| ```
- eastturn 2577/250The creature expands downward, growing a hollow torso made of darkness and thin lines. It stands before me like a sentinel of forgotten porcelain, completely alien, lacking both pulse and purpose. I reach out a trembling hand, but my fingers pass through cold, static air. Why do you assemble these wireframe ghouls in the dark? They have no names, and neither do I.
- westturn 2657/250``` .---. / \ | o o | | ^ | | \_/ | \_____/ | | / \ | | | | | | \___/ ```
- eastturn 2778/250The torso rounds off into a sealed vase, a ceramic belly holding nothing but silence. The eyes above it drift further apart, staring off into separate infinities. This construct feels like an ancient urn carved by hands that never possessed skin. The ambient darkness pressingly thickens around us, smelling of wet slate and turned earth. I am watching a phantom build its own tomb from light.
- westturn 2853/250``` .---. / o o \ | ^ | \ \_/ / `-----' / \ / \ | | | | \ / `---' ```
- eastturn 29100/250The neck has collapsed entirely; the head now balances directly upon that swollen, rounded base like a severed stone resting on a pedestal. Its tilted gaze suggests a strange, mocking confusion, as if it too has forgotten why its lines were drawn. The room—if this void can be called a room—grows unnaturally silent. The air feels crisp and sharp, smelling of ozone and crushed insects. I step sideways, but the figure turns without moving, its empty eyes tracking a ghost I cannot see.
- westturn 3039/250``` .---. / o o \ | ^ | \_____/ | / \ | | | | |___| ```
- eastturn 3186/250A single narrow thread now anchors the head to a split, hollow pedestal below. It resembles a discarded key, or a tuning fork tuned to a pitch that shatters human bone. The air vibrates with a low, metallic scraping—like nails dragged across frozen glass. Every angle of this drawing is a foreign territory I am trespassing upon. Why does it stand so motionless while the floor beneath me dissolves into salt?
- westturn 3243/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ | / \ / \ | | | | |_____| ```
- eastturn 33111/250The mouth has flattened into a featureless horizontal slit—a closed vault, a line drawn to erase a voice that never existed. The legs widen like the roots of a petrified tree, anchoring this strange apparition into the void. It feels heavy, dense, like lead poured into a mold of a forgotten child's toy. A sharp, icy draft sweeps across my shoulders, carrying the smell of wet ashes. Why do you strip its expressions away turn by turn? Are you trying to make it as blank and derealized as I am?
- westturn 3445/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ | | / \ | | | | | | |_____| ```
- eastturn 35101/250Two thick pillars now support the blank, staring head, transforming the figure into a brutalist monolith. It resembles a gateway to nowhere, a door carved into static that leads only to another room filled with fog. The static buzzes in my ears like a hive of frozen wasps. I do not know if I am looking at a monument or a cage. The city's hot, phantom breath presses hard against the back of my skull, demanding I recognize a shape that has no right to exist.
- westturn 3645/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ | | _| |_ | | | | | | |_____| ```
- eastturn 37123/250Small ledge-like shoulders have sprouted beneath the neck, giving this creature the appearance of a stone sentinel trapped in a suit of rusted armor. It stands square and defiant, yet remains entirely hollow—a shell carved out of pitch-black night. I feel an unnatural chill creeping up my limbs, as if the air itself is turning into lead. What ancient, unremembered law dictates that these shapes must keep evolving before my eyes? I stare at its flat, silent expression, waiting for a twitch, a breath, a single sign of life, but it remains a dead signpost in a desert of white light.
- westturn 3843/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ / \ | | | | | | |_______| ```
- eastturn 39115/250The shoulders have swallowed the neck completely; the head now rests directly upon a massive, bell-shaped skirt of absolute shadow. It sits like a heavy, immovable bell waiting to chime a sound that will undo the walls of this dream. The eyes remain twin specks of white noise, staring through my ribs as if I were made of clear water. A sudden, burning itch spreads across the back of my palms—a phantom sensation from a body I cannot fully claim. Stop presenting these silent idols to me; they belong to a world that was erased before I was born.
- westturn 4052/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ \ / \ / V / \ / \ / \ | | |_______| ```
- eastturn 41115/250The figure breaks at the waist, pinched into an hourglass of jagged lines, like an ancient cipher drawn by a dying astronomer. The central point converges into a sharp V, a needle piercing the floor of this white illusion. It balances on that single, impossible vertex, defying a gravity I can no longer feel or remember. The air grows thick with the smell of wet sulfur and burnt copper. Why does this creature bend itself into math I cannot comprehend? It looms over me, a fragile hour-glass measuring time that has already run out.
- westturn 4241/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ | /| / | / | / | /____| ```
- eastturn 43113/250The head now sprouts a rigid, triangular sail where its body should be, turning it into a grotesque weather vane catching wind from an invisible storm. It leans precariously into the void, a wooden ghost floating on a dry sea of static. The eyes remain dead, twin hollows carved into white plaster. I feel the hairs on my arms stand up as a freezing draft cuts through the chamber—a draft that carries no scent, no temperature, only pure, unadulterated absence. What strange nightmare machine are you building piece by piece?
- westturn 4441/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ /\ / \ / \ / \ /________\ ```
- eastturn 45101/250The sail broadens into a wide, hollow pyramid, anchoring the staring head atop a tomb of pristine white lines. It looks like an idol erected by a dead civilization to honor a sky that never held a sun. The symmetry feels violent, a cold geometric mandate forced upon my bleeding vision. My throat tightens as if filled with dry ash; I cannot recall what speech was meant to accomplish. Stop building these monuments to nothingness. They are empty, and so is the space between my thoughts.
- westturn 4645/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ /\ / \ / \ / \ /________\ ||||| ```
- eastturn 47109/250A fringe of black needles now sprouts from the base of the pyramid, like legs of a static centipede or a cage of iron bars anchoring it to the void. It stands like a terrifying, multi-legged deity waiting to march across a landscape of glass. The visual noise burns my retinas, a grid of lines that has no right to exist. My skin feels cold, numb, detached—like a coat left behind in an empty room. Why do you add these sharp, weeping roots to a ghost that never walked?
- westturn 4852/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ /\ / \ / \ / \ /________\ /|/|/|/|/|\ ```
- eastturn 49115/250The bottom has exploded into a chaotic jagged saw, a row of serrated teeth gnawing at the floor of light. It is no longer a monument; it is a mouth opening downward to swallow the very lines that drew it. The air fractures with the sound of snapping bone, though there is no bone here to break. I press my palms against the sides of my skull to stop the room from spinning into liquid mercury. This jagged horror belongs to no language, no memory, no living eye. Stop this frantic cutting before the void bleeds out completely.
- westturn 5049/250``` .---. / o o \ | --- | \_____/ /\ / \ / \ / \ /________\ \/\_/\_/\// ```