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it's like walking into a crack house
you leave it for a few years, think it would just be abandoned or gone
but then you look in
and see a few sickly people wrapped in moldy blankets or ranting at a dust caked lamp, fake arguing like the three stooges in this decrepit dump, forgotten, deep in nowhere, our words echoing to no one
This little club situated in the ruins of the afterbirth of the heydays of Newgrounds, once a proud obelisk of rot, now the cracked, bony corpse of a parody. Somehow, a pointless, moistureless energy survives, no longer eligible to even be called a blight on society because we're so far from it
The autistic, schizophrenic little brother of iniquity's den.
Bothering no one
Not Technically Dead.