WTTQ Special Transmission: “Are They Aliens?”

 Live from the edge of the Hollow Tree Grove in collaboration with DJ Dandy's Ambient Moth Mix.

“And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out…” William Butler Yeats

A line heard whispered across dimensions tonight. It echoes along the marsh paths, just past the Retreat gallery… and again, in the grass where Moth (aka Johnyd45) used to hide.
Locals, wanderers, and returning entities alike have begun asking:
Are the white moths… aliens?

The sound of fluttering increases

Some say yes, they arrived the night Dr. Parallax tuned the Moai stones with frequencies he “definitely didn’t borrow from a Vega signal.” Others swear the moths are memory-collectors, drawn to unresolved feelings, gliding silently toward heartbreak like it’s fuel.

A source at the Retreat Gallery, who asked to be identified only as “Shallan, watcher of the third frame,” claims the moths are encoded beings. Light-borne archivists, programmed to mimic what we love and then gently remind us that it's already gone.

 A celestial harp plays faintly behind the voice of Raine Solara

Meanwhile, Casey and Rachel danced beneath a lantern swarm of them at the Basement Club last night, oblivious to the way the moths circled once, paused mid-air, then vanished. Bun G. Chord described it as “a glitch in the beat or a visitation.”

Tonight’s only real question:

Are we watching the moths, or are they watching us?

This has been another WTTQ Transmission.
From the veil between knowing and forgetting…
We remain.

“A Conversation with Dr. Parallax: On Moths, Memory, and the Meaning of Flicker” is coming up next.

Is Fall Coming Soon?

Yes… You can feel it. ( Maybe not where you are in real life)
Not in the calendar, maybe not just yet, but in the sideways golden light, in the way the air hesitates at dusk, in the small sighs of trees deciding whether to let go.

In Second Life, maybe the leaves don’t fall unless someone scripts them to.
But emotionally?
Fall is always just around the corner.

The kind of season that smells like old books, sips like mulled wine, and whispers, “it’s okay to start over.”
So get your cardigans ready.
The world’s about to get softer, sadder, and somehow more beautiful.

Fall is coming.
And she’s bringing memories you forgot you buried.

“DJ Eddie Spins Out — A Hotlanta Departure with Cold Silence”

 Filed from the reverb-drenched basement of the Basement Club, where the vibe is hurt but the beats go on

“One day, he was dropping lo-fi under the Moai.
The next? Gone.
No goodbye. No ‘brb.’ Just Hotlanta.”

The truth is, he was rude and did not like the rules of no politics in the Basement Club. He said this to me on his last DJing day: 

[2025/07/01 20:26] Anjelikka: RL is RL, and we are here in SL.

[2025/07/01 20:29] Eddie Czavicevic: Now shut up, but if you keep chatting, I can't answer your questions

Maybe the Hotlanta Blues Club likes it; that's fine. He is now banned, and so is his gf Pandera.

FACTS:
He didn’t officially resign.
He never returned the shared stream password.
He renamed the Hotlanta stream: "EDGIER WITH EDDIE – NO WEIRDOS THIS TIME." Just kidding, but he is a coward for not saying, "Hey, I quit."

I am soooo relieved he is gone from our great place.

UNPROFESSIONAL?
Completely.
If DJ Eddie Czavicevic wanted to move on, that’s his choice.
But Basement Club was built on community, respect, and just enough chaos to keep it sacred.

And abandoning a residency without closure?
That’s not edgy.
That’s immature.

Some people don’t deserve the stage.
Some people forget that a club is more than lights and sound.
It’s people. It’s trust. It’s knowing someone’s listening on the other side of the stream.

DJ Eddie walked out.
Fine.
Let Hotlanta have him.

The Basement Club plays on.
With better beats.
Stronger hearts.
And DJs who know the dancefloor is sacred.

WTTQ UNDERCOVER REPORT: “Astrid’s Cousins at SL22B.Who Knew?”

 Filed live from a glitter-drenched hoverpod in orbit around the Second Life Birthday exhibit (Sector F: Unregistered Visitors & Glitter-Bloodlines)

“I thought I was just here for the cake and freebies.
Then someone whispered, ‘Aren’t you Astrid’s cousin?’
And suddenly I was surrounded.”

THE SL22B INCIDENT:

SL22B was supposed to be the usual chaotic birthday bash:
Lag, sparkles, weird freebies, overly sincere art builds, and alien sightings that everyone pretends to ignore.

A family Reunion???

But then, they showed up.
Astrid’s cousins.
Not just one. A cluster. A cluster of cousins.
No one had ever seen them before.
No one had ever seen them all together.

Cousin Frayda: Identifies as “Multispectral” and speaks in 7-note scales. Possibly part hummingbird. Definitely flammable.

Jex: Glitch-hopper, certified gacha hoarder, once married to a vending machine (briefly annulled).

Cousin 0110: A non-verbal lightform who only communicates through bursts of static near teleport hubs.

Cousin Marveena: Thinks she’s human. Everyone else knows she isn’t. Last seen arguing with a terraformer bot about the meaning of the word “cousin.”

Gloop: Possibly not a cousin. Possibly a sentient dessert.

Astrid, when confronted, simply sipped her espresso and said:
“Bloodlines are messy. And sometimes cosmic.”

It may have been DJ Glarv mixing the tunes.

THEIR BOOTH AT SL22B:
Officially titled:
“UNOFFICIAL INTERGALACTIC KINSHIP ZONE”

Features include:
A bounce house made of missed calls
An interactive family tree that updates depending on your emotional state
Free tacos (possibly dimensional)
A mirror that shows who you’d be if you’d been raised by Astrid’s great-uncle Glarv.

“They welcomed me like I’d been missing. Maybe I was.” Raine Solara
“One of them licked my aura.” Dandy
“They kept calling me ‘Cousin Tubby’ even though I’m not. I might be now.” Tubby

You never really know who you’re related to in Second Life.
Not by blood. Not by logic.
But by vibe.
Astrid’s cousins didn’t come to perform. They came to reclaim space, remind her who she is,
and possibly recruit new relatives.
So if you danced with a glittering stranger at SL22B and they whispered, “See you at the next family rift,”

You’re in.
Like it or not.
You’ve got cousins now.
And they never forget.

“Area 52 Art and Alien Exhibit: I Found Her”

 Filed beneath pulsing starlight and paint-stained canvas in Gallery Room B (the one that hums)

“I don’t know what I was looking for... until I saw her.
And suddenly everything I never said had a face.”

THE AREA 52 ART & ALIEN EXHIBIT:
Nestled just past the Hollow Tree, through a rusted gate that only appears at dusk, lies the Area 52 Exhibit, a shifting gallery where the walls sometimes breathe, and the brushstrokes know your name. Each piece is anonymous, but every one feels like it’s watching you back.

Some whisper.
Some blink.
Some change when you’re not looking.

She’s in the third corridor, near the display marked:
“UNAUTHORIZED TRANSMISSIONS // SUBJECT ECHO-9”
You didn’t recognize her at first. Maybe you weren’t ready.
But now you see the outline of someone you loved.
Or dreamed. Or maybe were. She’s part woman, part static, eyes wide like a signal flare,
one hand reaching toward the edge of the frame.
Underneath, etched faintly in alien script:
“I waited here for you.”

WHO IS SHE?
Some say it’s Anjelikka, caught mid-sketch in a trance.
Others swear it’s the mysterious HB (Lady from Utahpiah) in her true form.
Or maybe…it’s you.
Projected from your memory, rendered by something not quite human but deeply understanding.

“I found her” doesn’t mean you understand.
It means something lost in the static looked back and recognized you.

Whether she was a memory, an alien, or a forgotten self, you found something sacred in a gallery that only reveals what you’re ready to see.

And now?
You’ll never walk the Retreat quite the same again.
Because once you’ve found her, you start to remember yourself.

Keep looking.
She might move again.

"Real-Life Pain and Second-Life Disappointments"

 Filed between the blinking cursor of a goodbye message and a teleport that never landed.

“I logged in to escape something, but somehow it followed me here.”

No, I am not leaving SL...I am just a little disappointed. This can happen.

In real life:
You carry the weight on your shoulders.
You flinch when the phone buzzes.
You smile when you're expected to.
But beneath that?
A quiet ache.
The kind that doesn't show up on scans.

In Second Life:
You built a world.
A garden.
A club.
A self.
A version of you that dances barefoot, DJs with aliens, writes poems in the sky.
But still, somehow they left. Or didn’t show.

Or forgot your name when the region restarted.

Second Life sometimes amplifies real-life pain. It reflects it in soft neon and windlight shadows. It lets you speak when your mouth won’t open in the real world, and it enables you to be ghosted by silence, all over again.

Be kind to the people behind the screen

“I built the Retreat to feel whole. But sometimes, I just sit there and wait for people who never come.” – Anjelikka

“They loved my alt but couldn’t be bothered with me.” – Dandy
“We shared secrets in a digital ocean. Then they unfriended me like I didn’t exist.” – Raine

My back was hurting from sitting, yet I showed up and waited, and nothing!!

You’re allowed to grieve both kinds of pain.
Second Life can hit harder than one in the flesh because it’s wrapped in hope, and you were in control… until you weren’t.

But here's something true:
Every friend who did stay.
Every slow dance in a laggy ballroom.
Every pixel that held a truth your real mouth couldn't say that mattered.

Stay connected.
We’re still listening.

"Cann!bal, the Forgotten Islands"

 Received at 3:33AM from a rusted radio buoy floating off the edge of remembered history.

"They weren’t on any map anymore. But someone kept dreaming about them."

The islands of Cann!bal aren’t listed. (Find it in the destination guide, but shhh.)
Not on tourist brochures. Not in world atlases.
They appear in dreams, in fever, in a flicker of static just between radio stations.
Some say you can only find them when you’ve lost something important, like trust or your second self.

They aren’t named Cannibal because of people-eating.
No, it’s far stranger than that.
They consume your memories.
Bit by bit. Bite by bite.

Cann!bal is a chain of atolls wrapped in inland mist and outer lies.
The water glows wrong. The waves hum backward.
Sometimes, postcards wash ashore from people who were never there. You might recognize the handwriting.
Erma once found mushrooms on the shore that whispered your ex's name.
Raine Solara once reported from the main island but came back speaking in riddles and sand.

SURVIVOR NOTES:
"Don’t eat the fruit. Don’t answer the statues."
The monkeys know something but will only communicate via improvised charades.
There’s a chapel with no door where you can leave offerings. Or regrets.
A lizard named Tarp runs the only bar, "The Gullet,"  and serves drinks made from things you’ve forgotten you miss.

“I forgot who I was for three hours. It was a relief.” Casey
“There was a version of me already living there. They were kinder.” Anjelikka
“I met a woman who said she remembered dying there. In 1924. She offered me soup.” Bun
“⁂¤π∴ kept vanishing and reappearing slightly happier.” Dandy

Cann!bal isn’t a place. It’s a reckoning. It’s what happens when memory grows teeth and nostalgia asks for seconds. If you wake up with sand in your shoes and a seashell that hums your name…you’ve been there.
And part of you stayed.
Stay alert.
Stay curious.
And if someone offers you stew, ask where the recipe came from.