Level 1
New Crafter

    hi there
    i'm just an ender boi that's been around minecraft since 2015. still remember watching DanTDM, PopularMMOS, Skydoesminecraft even before i had the game. Ye, ik the parodies.
    i'm weird lol
    i do some skinning, but not a lot.
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    • EnderDude2234
      July 29, 2020, 9:46 am to Public
      without further ado, the longest sentence i could find on the internet. i didn't read it.
      ow they’re going to see who I am, he said
      to himself in his strong new man’s voice, many years after he had first
      seen the huge ocean liner without lights and without any sound which
      passed by the village one night like a great uninhabited place, longer
      than the whole village and much taller than the steeple of the church,
      and it sailed by in the darkness toward the colonial city on the other
      side of the bay that had been fortified against buccaneers, with its old
      slave port and the rotating light, whose gloomy beams transfigured the
      village into a lunar encampment of glowing houses and streets of
      volcanic deserts every fifteen seconds, and even though at that time
      he’d been a boy without a man’s strong voice but with his’ mother’s
      permission to stay very late on the beach to listen to the wind’s night
      harps, he could still remember, as if still seeing it, how the liner
      would disappear when the light of the beacon struck its side and how it
      would reappear when the light had passed, so that it was an intermittent
      ship sailing along, appearing and disappearing, toward the mouth of the
      bay, groping its way like a sleep‐walker for the buoys that marked the
      harbor channel, until something must have gone wrong with the compass
      needle, because it headed toward the shoals, ran aground, broke up, and
      sank without a single sound, even though a collision against the reefs
      like that should have produced a crash of metal and the explosion of
      engines that would have frozen, with fright the soundest‐sleeping
      dragons in the prehistoric jungle that began with the last streets of
      the village and ended on the other side of the world, so that he himself
      thought it was a dream, especially the, next day, when he. saw the
      radiant fishbowl. of the bay, the disorder of colors of the Negro shacks
      on the hills above the harbor, the schooners of the smugglers from the
      Guianas loading their cargoes ‐of innocent parrots whose craws were full
      of diamonds, he thought, I fell asleep counting the stars and L dreamed
      about that huge ship, of course, he was so convinced that he didn’t
      tell anyone nor did he remember the vision again until the same night on
      the following March when he was looking for the flash of dolphins in
      the sea and what he found was the illusory line, gloomy, intermittent,
      with the same mistaken direction as the first time, except that then he
      was so sure he was awake that he ran to tell his mother and she spent
      three weeks moaning with disappointment, because your brain’s rotting
      away from doing so many things backward, sleeping during the day and
      going out at night like a criminal, and since she had to go to the city
      around that time to get something comfortable where she could sit and
      think about her dead husband, because the rockers on her chair had worn
      out after eleven years of widowhood, she took advantage of the occasion
      and had the boatman go near the shoals so that her son could see what he
      really saw in the glass of; the sea, the lovemaking of manta rays in a
      springtime of sponges, pink snappers and blue corvinas diving into the
      other wells of softer waters that were there among the waters, and even
      the wandering hairs of victims of drowning in some colonial shipwreck,
      no trace of sunken liners of anything like it, and yet he was so
      pigheaded that his mother promised to watch with him the next March,
      absolutely, not knowing that the only thing absolute in her future now
      was an easy chair from the days of Sir Francis Drake which she had
      bought at an auction in a Turk’s store, in which she sat down to rest
      that same night sighing, oh, my poor Olofernos, if you could only see
      how nice it is to think about you on this velvet lining and this brocade
      from the casket of a queen, but the more she brought back the memory of
      her dead husband, the more the blood in her heart bubbled up and turned
      to chocolate, as if instead of sitting down she were running, soaked
      from chills and fevers and her breathing full of earth, until he
      returned at dawn and found her dead in the easy chair, still warm, but
      half rotted away as after a snakebite, the same as happened afterward to
      four other women before the murderous chair was thrown into the sea,
      far away where it wouldn’t bring evil to anyone, because it had. been
      used so much over the centuries that its faculty for giving rest had
      been used up, and so he had to grow accustomed to his miserable routine
      of an orphan who was pointed out by everyone as the son of the widow who
      had brought the throne of misfortune into the village, living not so
      much from public charity as from fish he stole out of the boats, while
      his voice was becoming a roar, and not remembering his visions of past
      times anymore until another night in March when he chanced to look
      seaward and suddenly, good Lord, there, it is, the huge asbestos whale,
      the behemoth beast, come see it, he shouted madly, come see it, raising
      such an uproar of dogs’ barking and women’s panic that even the oldest
      men remembered the frights of their great‐grandfathers and crawled under
      their beds, thinking that William Dampier had come back, but those who
      ran into the street didn’t make the effort to see the unlikely apparatus
      which at that instant was lost again in the east and raised up in its
      annual disaster, but they covered him with blows and left him so twisted
      that it was then he said to himself, drooling with rage, now they’re
      going to see who I am, but he took care not to share his determination
      with anyone, but spent the whole year with the fixed idea, now they’re
      going to see who I am, waiting for it to be the eve of the apparition
      once more in order to do what he did, which was steal a boat, cross the
      bay, and spend the evening waiting for his great moment in the inlets of
      the slave port, in the human brine of the Caribbean, but so absorbed in
      his adventure that he didn’t stop as he always did in front of the
      Hindu shops to look at the ivory mandarins carved from the whole tusk of
      an elephant, nor did he make fun of the Dutch Negroes in their
      orthopedic velocipedes, nor was he frightened as at other times of the
      copper‐skinned Malayans, who had gone around the world, enthralled by
      the chimera of a secret tavern where they sold roast filets of Brazilian
      women, because he wasn’t aware of anything until night came over him
      with all the weight of the stars and the jungle exhaled a sweet
      fragrance of gardenias and rotter salamanders, and there he was, rowing
      in the stolen boat, toward the mouth of the bay, with the lantern out so
      as not to alert the customs police, idealized every fifteen seconds by
      the green wing flap of the beacon and turned human once more by the
      darkness, knowing that he was getting close to the buoys that marked the
      harbor, channel, not only because its oppressive glow was getting more
      intense, but because the breathing of the water was becoming sad, and he
      rowed like that, so wrapped up in himself, that he. didn’t know where
      the fearful shark’s breath that suddenly reached him came from or why
      the night became dense, as if the stars had suddenly died, and it was
      because the liner was there, with all of its inconceivable size, Lord,
      bigger than, any other big thing in the world and darker than any other
      dark thing on land or sea, three hundred thousand tons of shark smell
      passing so close to the boat that he could see the seams of the steel
      precipice without a single light in the infinite portholes, without a
      sigh from the engines, without a soul, and carrying its own circle of
      silence with it, its own dead air, its halted time, its errant sea in
      which a whole world of drowned animals floated, and suddenly it all
      disappeared with the flash of the beacon and for an instant it was the
      diaphanous Caribbean once more, the March night, the everyday air of the
      pelicans, so he stayed alone among the buoys, not knowing what to do,
      asking himself, startled, if perhaps he wasn’t dreaming while he was
      awake, not just now but the other times too, but no sooner had. he asked
      himself than a breath of mystery snuffled out the buoys, from the first
      to the last, so that when the light of the beacon passed by the liner
      appeared again and now its compasses were out of order, perhaps not even
      knowing what part of the ocean sea it was in, groping for the invisible
      channel but actually heading for the shoals, until he got the
      overwhelming revelation that that misfortune of the buoys was the last
      key to the enchantment and he lighted the lantern in the boat, a tiny
      red light that had no reason to alarm anyone in the watch towers but
      which would be like a guiding sun for the pilot, because, thanks to it,
      the liner corrected its course and passed into the main gate of the
      channel in a maneuver of lucky resurrection, and then all the lights
      went on at the same time so that the boilers wheezed again, the stars
      were fixed in their places, and the animal corpses went to the bottom,
      and there was a clatter of plates and a fragrance of laurel sauce in the
      kitchens, and one could hear the pulsing of the orchestra on the moon
      decks and the throbbing of the arteries of high‐sea lovers in the
      shadows of the staterooms, but he still carried so much leftover rage in
      him that he would not let himself be confused by emotion or be
      frightened by the miracle, but said to himself with more decision than
      ever, now they’re going to see who I am, the cowards, now they’re going
      to see, and instead of turning aside so that the colossal machine would
      not charge into him he began to row in front of it, because now they
      really are going to see who I am, and he continued guiding the ship with
      the lantern until he was so sure of its obedience that he made it
      change course from the direction of the docks once more, took it out of
      the invisible channel, and led it by the halter as if it were a sea lamb
      toward the lights of the sleeping village, a living ship, invulnerable
      to the torches of the beacon, that no longer made invisible but made it
      aluminum every fifteen seconds, and the crosses of the church, the
      misery of the houses, the illusion began to stand out and still the
      ocean liner followed behind him, following his will inside of it, the
      captain asleep on his heart side, the fighting bulls in the snow of
      their pantries, the solitary patient in the infirmary, the orphan water
      of its cisterns, the unredeemed pilot who must have mistaken the cliffs
      for the docks, because at that instant the great roar of the whistle
      burst forth, once, and he with downpour of steam that fell on him,
      again, and the boat belonging to someone else was on the point of
      capsizing, and again, but it was too late, because there were the shells
      of the shoreline, the stones of the street, the doors of the
      disbelievers, the whole village illuminated by the lights of the
      fearsome liner itself, and he barely had time to get out of the way to
      make room for the cataclysm, shouting in the midst of the confusion,
      there it is, you cowards, a second before the huge steel cask shattered
      the ground and one could hear the neat destruction of ninety thousand
      five hundred champagne glasses breaking, one after the other, from stem
      to stern, and then the light came out and it was no longer a March dawn
      but the noon of a radiant Wednesday, and he was able to give himself the
      pleasure of watching the disbelievers as with open mouths they
      contemplated the largest ocean liner in this world and the other aground
      in front of the church, whiter than anything, twenty times taller than
      the steeple and some ninety‐seven times longer than the village, with
      its name engraved in iron letters, Halalcsillag, and the ancient and
      languid waters of the sea of death dripping down its sides.
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