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James Fraser
1,165 followers
1,165 followers
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A Minecraft Train Station

Not finished yet (theres 1 more level to build), there are no minecarts yet, but its kinda based on the old trainstation in vancouver.

It's all on a server that I might publish soon.
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built the ceiling, 2 minutes later, this:

... im going to need more light.
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recent #minecraft build - vancouver stock exchange, attempt 1

anyone looking for a half decent builder?  i'm bored and looking for projects to assist on
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made on a 3d printer

source unknown
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fear me, i've killed hundreds of timelords.

fear me, i've killed all of them

trust me.  i'm the doctor.

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Dinosaurs.. on a spaceship!

i wonder what we would have looked like if patent lawyers had gotten involved in evolution.. who had the patent on limbs first?

The Good Old Days

It was just before dawn, the air was crisp, you could almost smell the sun about to rise.  Signs of collapse and corruption.  Cigarette butts everywhere, scratched lotto tickets and empty coffee cups, the contents pooled against a wall nearby.  And this was just outside my apartment.  Monday morning, I blew a smoke ring, and for a second tried to stop time.  After a pause, I checked my watch, just to make sure.

It’s 3:30AM and I have 7 miles to go.  I left 3 hours ago, and I’m on my way back.  Ice is a bitch to navigate without daylight.. and my bike was a cheap piece of shit.  The alcohol, pot and tail end of the shrooms were definitely not helping.  The bike path used to be an achievement of conservation, of the new green trends trying to redeem evils of the 90’s.  The cities constructed the path in the place of an old train track.  A mark of repatriation.  But people stopped caring.  The waste and delapitation evidence what has become a decade of an epidemic of apathy.  

Still 5 miles to go and the cold began to creep into my bones.  3 miles to go and the chain slips off.

Another smoke ring, and a brief squint.  Who knows, maybe Hiro was on to something.  Tick, tock, nothing.  I take a sip of my.. Irish latte, and try again.  Alcohol helps time travel, right?  The tile floor is freezing as I peel off my clothes and change into my work clothes.  Black on black, can’t show the stains.  I mop up the almost half gallon of water I have deposited since getting to work  Grinding coffee, pouring milk, the smell of cold muffins and scones.  My mind is still slow, things just.. happen.  It’s 5:58, and time to open the doors.  Guess who’s waiting, trying the door again to see if its unlocked.  “Where are the papers” Mr. Willis demands, not waiting for a response.  Next is double espresso breve machiatto lady, but only if you describe it the way she does, and let her watch, and direct the drink making.  She hates me, no one knows why, she’s sweet as pie to the rest of our crew.  Next in is Ms. Bradley, a woman who had balls, we had threatened to sue her multiple times for harrassment and assault, but she kept coming.

“Good morning”  It’s the first positive thing I’ve heard all morning.  John walks in with a smile, recognizing the look on my face.  “Long night?”  I just nodded.  He grins, and turns all of the lights on.  I wince and hide behind a column cursing.  It’s 7.  I have biked 7 miles, made coffee for 57 people (38 different types beverages if you’re wondering), been harrassed, assaulted, nearly died, and failed to stop time.  That was a pretty good morning.
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