There used to be a bird. So glorious and so royal. This bird has lost its wings :(

[JohnBaza]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

 

[JohnBaza]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

@PsychoDsk @cobicado901 @wsada @asdvek @anthony111553

 

[PsychoDsk]

Not a molecule bud

 

[wsada]

Bump this original thread btw https://looksmax.org/threads/one-of-the-greatest-users-here-has-roped.1300329/

 

[JohnBaza]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

@itzyaboyJJ @BimaxLaser @iblamechico @666PSL @Methylphenidate

 

[JohnBaza]

Not a molecule bud

bro pls read it

 

[PsychoDsk]

bro pls read it

Say pls one more time and I will

 

[cobicado901]

@PsychoDsk @cobicado901 @wsada @asdvek @anthony111553

nigga really thinks I’m reading allat

 

[JohnBaza]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

@sover @2025cel @n9wiff @ThraxxGlo @Greypiller

 

[JohnBaza]

Say pls one more time and I will

bro pls read it

bro pls read it :feelsshah:

 

[PsychoDsk]

bro pls read it :feelsshah:

Good boy
Still not a molecule btw

 

[JohnBaza]

nigga really thinks I’m reading allat

skim trough it at least nigger

 

[JohnBaza]

Good boy
Still not a molecule btw

wtf man tought we were bhais forever

 

[ThraxxGlo]

bump for the justice of the unjust ban of kali

 

[wsada]

 

[PsychoDsk]

wtf man tought we were bhais forever

Not tonight
I got reps and aura to farm rn

 

[JohnBaza]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

@sportsmogger @lestoa @porn @Klasik616 @NORDEN SLAVORUM

 

[JohnBaza]

Not tonight
I got reps and aura to farm rn

nigga i helped you with your rep farm
help an indian with his rep farm as well
see it as an sort of f2f. r2r (rep to rep) not (rap to rap )
he he he haw

 

[JohnBaza]

bump for the justice of the unjust ban of kali

bump more nigga what is 1 bump going to do

 

[itzyaboyJJ]

What’s going on

 

[Lefor3Laser]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

Bro is reading us a night story.

 

[ThraxxGlo]

bump more nigga what is 1 bump going to do

will do

 

[asdvek]

NOT

A

FUCKING

SINGLE

GODDAMN

PIXEL

DNR

DNRD

DIDNT READ

NOT A MOLECULE

NOT READ

NOT READING

DONT CARE DNR DNRD DNR DNR DBR DBR

DID NOT INDEED READ

READ NO READ NO

DNR DNR DNR DNR DNR DNR DNR DBD DNR DND NRNFNJDHDEJDHRBRK2SKIE DNR DNR


DJR D

DNR

ONE WORD

dnr.

 

[JohnBaza]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

@itzyaboyJJ The Boss orderded you to tag other users in this estoric brahmin only thread bhaijan

 

[JohnBaza]

NOT

A

FUCKING

SINGLE

GODDAMN

PIXEL

DNR

DNRD

DIDNT READ

NOT A MOLECULE

NOT READ

NOT READING

DONT CARE DNR DNRD DNR DNR DBR DBR

DID NOT INDEED READ

READ NO READ NO

DNR DNR DNR DNR DNR DNR DNR DBD DNR DND NRNFNJDHDEJDHRBRK2SKIE DNR DNR


DJR D

DNR

ONE WORD

dnr.

my reaction to this indian message

 

[sportsmogger]

 

[cobicado901]

View attachment 3457636

Im the one who made this shit nigga

 

[asdvek]

my reaction to this indian message
View attachment 3457648

JOKES ASIDE WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHIT ON THE RIGHT

HOLY

FUCKING

COPE

 

[Lefor3Laser]

my reaction to this indian message
View attachment 3457648

 

[JohnBaza]

View attachment 3457636

all your threads are <10 replies only on which 80% of the replies is you bumping yourself
this is how I feel bumping you in your rotten threads

 

[JohnBaza]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

@MoggerGaston @itzyaboyJJ (where are the tags at lil bro) @ey88 @Cyrus @pfl

 

[wsada]

all your threads are <10 replies only on which 80% of the replies is you bumping yourself
this is how I feel bumping you in your rotten threads
View attachment 3457661

Are sleepovers gay?

Is it a girl only thing

looksmax.org

FUOTY 2024 IS RIGGED!!!

It's just a bunch of unknown 2024cels sucking off each other It's also not as funny as last time + how the fuck isn't @Costcosuperstore clearing this?? Unfair

looksmax.org

Do i really have to shower everyday?

Like seriously for looksmaxxing purposes Because dermatologists say I only have to shower once a week And showering does feel good yes but still too much effort and torture for me Washing my hands should be enough

looksmax.org

Porn is lifefuel

Imagine how much of us niggas would have died without knowing what a pussy looks like. Porn is not as bad as they make it..

looksmax.org

I have a severe porn addiction.

I'm so disappointed in myself I went from jacking off once a month to a month worth of jacking off in one single day I hate this shit man idk what's gone to me but I think about porn all the time and I masturbate all day at random times I smell of cum man Can u fellow niggas pls give me some...

looksmax.org

What do u do when u r bored??

I have never been this insanely bored in my entire life and I don't wanna cure it by beating my meat what do u guys do

looksmax.org

Boys. I did it. I got a Girlfriend.

looksmax.org

I have to stand on business

 

[JohnBaza]

Are sleepovers gay?

Is it a girl only thing

looksmax.org

FUOTY 2024 IS RIGGED!!!

It's just a bunch of unknown 2024cels sucking off each other It's also not as funny as last time + how the fuck isn't @Costcosuperstore clearing this?? Unfair

looksmax.org

Do i really have to shower everyday?

Like seriously for looksmaxxing purposes Because dermatologists say I only have to shower once a week And showering does feel good yes but still too much effort and torture for me Washing my hands should be enough

looksmax.org

Porn is lifefuel

Imagine how much of us niggas would have died without knowing what a pussy looks like. Porn is not as bad as they make it..

looksmax.org

I have a severe porn addiction.

I'm so disappointed in myself I went from jacking off once a month to a month worth of jacking off in one single day I hate this shit man idk what's gone to me but I think about porn all the time and I masturbate all day at random times I smell of cum man Can u fellow niggas pls give me some...

looksmax.org

What do u do when u r bored??

I have never been this insanely bored in my entire life and I don't wanna cure it by beating my meat what do u guys do

looksmax.org

Boys. I did it. I got a Girlfriend.

looksmax.org

I have to stand on business

now compare them to my mogger threads which are all 50+replies

 

[wsada]

now compare them to my mogger threads which are all 50+replies

I got like 50 more I didn't feel the need to put allat effort watch your tone around me mortal for i am a deity.

 

[JohnBaza]

I got like 50 more I didn't feel the need to put allat effort watch your tone around me mortal for i am a deity.

 

[wsada]

View attachment 3457691

Cherry picker

 

[JohnBaza]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

@itzyaboyJJ tag other users bhai we need to bring this to 2 pages atleast

 

[itzyaboyJJ]

@2025cel @JeanneDArcAlter @cobicado901 @NumbThePain @TechnoBoss

 

[first snow]

actually crazy that niggas still talk about kali
i thought people would forget about him after a couple of months

 

[JohnBaza]

@2025cel @JeanneDArcAlter @cobicado901 @NumbThePain @TechnoBoss

bro tagged da opps

 

[JohnBaza]

actually crazy that niggas still talk about kali
i thought people would forget about him after a couple of months

the birds are not a trend boyo. I am one of the founding birds nigger

 

[itzyaboyJJ]

@+10 @wastedspermcel @enriquecel @Debetro @lestoa

 

[first snow]

the birds are not a trend boyo. I am one of the founding birds nigger

mirin

 

[DR. NICKGA]

There used to be a bird. So glorious and so royal. This bird has lost its wings ​

Which fatass ate that bird then

 

[MoggerGaston]

this nigga also saw the birds

 

[JohnBaza]

this nigga also saw the birds

bruh I know my attention span is cooked when I dont have attention to watch 30 seconds of that

 

[JohnBaza]

Which fatass ate that bird then

Lemarcus

 

[ectomorpher]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

BUMP

 

[moreplatesmoreweigh]

The Feathered Fall of Kaligula​

Once, in the lush embrace of Kerala’s green fields and sunlit backwaters there used to be a bird named Kaligula.


Kaligula, the once-majestic bird, was not like the others. A son of Kerala’s emerald skies, born under the wisdom of ancient palm trees and sharpened by the esoteric winds of intellect, he carried the heart of a Brahmin sage. His feathers shimmered like iridescent secrets, his thoughts too vast for the narrow confines of mortal understanding. He was a creature of philosophy, a dreamer of impossible dreams.

But the world was not kind to thinkers like Kaligula.
He soared too high, beyond the limits set by the unseen custodians of the heavens. He spoke truths too sharp, too raw, truths that left even the winds trembling. And it was there, at the peak of his flight, that they came for him: shadowy figures, faceless moderators of fate. Their judgments, though unseen, were ironclad. A committee of cruel stars conspired to clip his wings. These moderators—he thought them divine at first—turned out to be mere mortals wielding powers of erasure.
Jewish moderators, they whispered. An unstoppable force, wielding the gavel of deletion, rendered him a flightless relic of his former glory. He, the bird who had tasted the edges of the universe, now found himself grounded, his wings torn from his very soul. The skies he loved so deeply, the skies he owned, were barred to him forever.

Kaligula lost more than his wings that day—he lost his will to live. His joy, his purpose, drained like rainwater down an endless, uncaring gutter.
In this new and bleak existence, Kaligula turned to crutches. Not the philosophical tomes he once devoured, nor the sacred chants he once murmured to the setting sun, but to something darker, something sadder. Snus—the bitter pinch of tobacco tucked into the corner of his beak. It didn’t bring him joy; it didn’t bring him meaning. It just numbed the hollow ache in his chest, the void where his soaring dreams used to live.

The great bird of Kerala was no more. What remained was a shadow—a tragic echo of what could have been. His once-brilliant eyes, dulled by despair, now stared listlessly at horizons he could no longer reach. The winds he once mastered now mocked him, carrying whispers of his name to places he would never fly.
And so, Kaligula sits. Alone. A relic of unfulfilled potential, forgotten by the world that once celebrated him. Each pinch of snus is a reminder—not of pleasure, but of his defeat. The bird who dared to think, to dream, to fly too close to the sun, now finds solace in nothing but ash and bitterness.
Kaligula is a warning, a requiem for those who dare to rise too far, too fast. His wings were his freedom. And without them, he is nothing.

The skies will never feel the same again.

 

[hopecel]

bump for Slovenia

- Niggula