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The Raven





The Air
The Rope
The Fall
The Crushing and the Fish
The Need and the Salt
The Pain and the Palms
The Gap, the Bridge and the Blood
The Frenchman and Her
1236, the Dream and the Hatred
Damage at the Express Checkout
The Loss of Her

[01/07/2015 07:02 pst]

Goodbye fourteen. Now we plod through fifteen. As usual we remain unchanged other than scripting. The Clodmaster section has been in mind of late and admin will soon return to that front to move things along a bit. Other than that nonsense, just this...

We have secured a third top-level domain in which to expand the electronics of our minds. This new space will be inhabited by the great years-long experimentation which has yet to be realized. As the research pushes forward, the web space must follow. Our reach will have to be expanded in the extreme, but the effort should provide some return. This also means that the forum which has gone by the wayside for many moons will also find its way into use (hopefully). The idea was mentioned a few entries back. The space will be huge, to say the least. Stay tuned.

And now... on to admin's usual drivel.


"Here we go again.

The uphill which marks the only downside to the wonderful Master Winter: The fucking clock which has chased us since the carnage of '03. Time is the downside, in the extreme. Time is the steep uphill upon which we now tread. The path which kills us every year in every small way possible. That death is happening now. And this is not something helpful, as we are already in the midst of shifting from inactive to active dimensional research. Said shift will cause enough trouble for a lifetime and the addition of the fucking seasonal horseshit change is simply going to make every step in life much more difficult. We do not need this at all. We are pushing nothing in the correct direction. Nothing. We are still stagnant as to which direction to turn... and time is running out. Do we throw in the towel? Drive our heads into the concrete as the beauty commands? Do we make another attempt at a capture? Drive ourselves out the door as in so many years passed? Well...

These are the only choices. The fucking truth is there are no options to the positive. The capture draws us like nothing else in this world but the resulting life which would likely remain is ugly.

Photo, example, damage, fucking difficulty:


Diameter disparity, and the ratio of God

Above we see another example of numbers which closely match the original, and symmetry equal. We have difficulty in the extreme in considering said example and what it means to the entire project. If -- in coming weeks -- the project advances into the active stage, numbers may become clear and the subsequent research may be illuminated as never before. Such a situation would ease the arduous nature of the images upon which we ram our heads, as well as ease the research which has piled up in the computer for years.

The difficulty related to this lifestyle cannot be overstated. We have driven ourselves (drunken) into the ground on too many occasions and agonized through far too many public issues for the entire situation to be considered trivial. That is just not a possibility. The whole of the project is worth everything we've gone through but things will not become easier by any stretch. We shall continue unto death. Might as well go off the fucking deep end now, and at long last...

Another example of radii beyond description:


Multiplications of insanity

Understanding is for naught, as always. Why do we continue to make attempts? Is there some higher meaning to be found? Some sort of illusion to be revealed as hoax? Fuck no. The whole of the difficulty is a realization that explanation is now and for all time absent. The search is fruitless, the effort is futile, and the words will forever fail. What is the push to move forward? From where does the inspiration stem? Are we already insane? Bind us to a tree in the forest... the result will be the same no matter where we reside."

[01/13/2015 17:02 pst]

Admin has finally updated the Clodmaster section (up to 28 pages now!) and the staff has completed more backend work to keep everything streamlined. Thank goodness for Master Pages... they make the changing of the year easy.


"The numbers are flying through our heads like some sort of fleeting scraps of paper in a strong wind. They will not stop and we are powerless anyway. Do not try. The visions have overtaken our frail frames and there is no saving throw whatsoever. The visions will not stop nor will they allow us clarity of thought. The visions are all of us... all over us... all within us... all there is now. Visions. Images. Radii. Curvatures. Tapers. Disparity. There is to be no end until our own end. Just a glance caused all of this... precisely at a time when our place in the world was already defensive. At a time when we were on the cusp of letting go and pushing it all aside for other interests. Now that is not possible. The visions are inside and will not let go. They will not allow us comfort or respite. They are in total control of every second, every thought, every want, and every need. The power is too great to ignore and too heavy to move aside. The power is now everything.

We are doomed.

And it is over. The opportunity to look beyond the goddamned numbers and images... all of the studying and conjecture... gone. This is the single largest disappointment in years. The project is once again at a standstill and we are floored. Absolutely fucking floored beyond belief. What a fucking left hook. Despite the statements above regarding such a deeply-held need, we are back at the beginning. No prospects, no hopes, no nothing. God damn the whole thing anyway.

How did it come to this? When did the interest spiral out into an obsession? Was it the girl at the car wash? Fuck us. Perhaps. Or maybe the goddess at the fucking brewery? Fuck.

Depressive behavior arriveth.

Another essay is in the wings but the inspiration has left us like leaves in the wind. Gone. We may yet find the drive to put it together, but right now that drive has driven. Driven out of our heads and right into the frozen ground. Back to the damaging days of old we go. Back then the essays flew off the fucking pencil and straight into the book. They flew as during no other time. True, the damage was always at the forefront, but the words were worth it. They carried importance. They carried meaning. They carried us.


Numbers all over her...

A ten-year-plus dream down the fucking shitter. Unbelievable.

Or is it? Let us explore...

In the beginning there was the girl at the car wash, and the Esquire/Mojo girl on INHD. Back then, the idea of exploring the dimensions was in its infancy and something which we viewed as unrealistic. The reasons are painfully obvious, and were stated clearly during the MySpace days:

'I am also realizing my interest in the female form has not only grown into something much more important than the appreciation of physical attractiveness, but has also spidered my mind into the realm of the still-picture voyeur. I fear this obsession will eventually strengthen and further my need beyond the simple image and into the fiery world of people's private lives.'

So... there we were right dead center in the realization that the obsession would eventually go much further. We knew it. Even back then, when the project was in its infancy, the thought of future difficulty (and even impossibility) was already rooted within our psyche. It was fucking there, and now years later that moment has taken place and caused infinitely more heartache than originally thought possible. Again... how in the blue fuck did we get here? Did we subconsciously want this? Was it already another path to our grave? Was it an avenue for more destruction? Or perhaps simply too great a need to live without? Jesus Fucking Harold Christ. Honestly, it is too great a need. Far too great. This will either come to fruition or place us neatly in the ground. And at least that would yield us much less in the disturbing thought department. Like... none. That seems bliss at this moment. Exactly the opposite of the fucking heart-wrenching feelings we now endure.

Where the fuck is the Promised Land when we need it?

To be fucking continued."

[01/19/2015 13:59 pst]

The next essay is being written, scrutinized, polished, and admin has antagonized the staff over it for days now. He will not admit to the existence of it but we know better. Everything he writes goes through our hands before the production environment, and the resulting realization escapes him. Denial, of a sort. Hee.

The newest domain procurement was to become space for admin to explore and expand his already month-long change in content here. The direction of the blog focus here has taken a severe left turn from the usual banter about life and society, and into the study of the rarity of her image as the fascinating female form. This turn may well have been his plan from the outset of the new year, but that is nothing more than speculation. He will not discuss these things (even with his own staff) so we are at a loss as to the reasoning. On the upside, it means content and expansion. On the downside, we would like everything left here.

The next few weeks should prove interesting, to say the least.


"Alessandra Ambrosio was a part of the beginning of this...


Undeniable perfection

Since her first contract with Victoria's Secret, Alessandra's dimensions have been splayed across the Internet, but the detailed numbers remain unknown. Of course they will change slightly from one week to the next, but the basis has been there all along. Her height dramatically challenges the fitness of those whom share her profession through low body fat and very low body weight. The image above is one of the few which has propelled her to current status. She is incredible, to say the least, and her recent appearance and subsequent gallop down the runway in London has her cemented in the minds of all related to fashion.

Along with Alessandra, we do recall an image of Mercedes Terrell from several years ago when she modeled for trade shows. She was seated in the driver's seat of a sports car with feet on the ground as if she was about the exit the vehicle. The shot appears to be a candid because of her facial expression and pose. Mercedes has a very narrow waist and slightly wider than average (for a model) hips. Her position dramatically demonstrated the difference between the diameter of her waist and the diameter of her hips. Not only did she show off a very small waist, the image was pushed further due to her stomach and legs. Her stomach appears completely flat from the front and to the point of not even hiding the thin waistline of her lingerie. That fact... right there... is likely another catalyst as to our fascination with such specific shapes. There was no visible distortion along the transition of her body from thighs to torso. The only dividing lines were the creases that form due to her waist being bent. Everything else was smooth to the point of appearing artificial. She looked exaggerated, but not even remotely unattractive. Not even close. Below her waist, there is a gap between her upper thighs and the seat of the car is visible through this. The inner gap is another fantastic curve but also one almost impossible to recreate on paper (nearly so to describe with words as well).


Mercedes helped us into this...

Over time and during much study of the photo and why she appeared so attractive, this became something entirely different... the idea of the dimensions of her body being pushed to a place difficult to describe. During this period we began to seek images of her and other models which seemed to demonstrate similar features. Years later, we have amassed images beyond belief and studied our asses off but still there is no clear understanding of the why. In addition, upon two different occasions we attempted to approach others in order to actually take measurements, plot curves, and then try to create disparate drawings of various features. As of this writing, we have yet to accomplish anything other than conjecture.

Very disheartening, this process has become. Very. We know not what to do.

The simple fact now is that this type of woman is so extremely rare that to find someone willing to help us is a near impossibility. And we mean very near. She would need to wear a shape which is an enigma, AND be willing to be studied in a very intimate fashion. The entire project rests upon the possibility of real-world numbers, and this indicates we are now at a standstill which could outlast our lives.

Fucking disillusioned is an understatement.

[01/22/2015 18:00 pst]

Yesterday was admin's birthday, which means we should all brace for a storm front. Coupled with January (the entire month, mind you), the next few weeks will not be positive in any way. The site will sit, and the only forward progress will be bitching.


"We float in negative space now... waiting, wishing, dreaming, yearning. A portion of hell. A slice just large enough to contain our needs. And our needs have become our lives. We have been relegated to this by our own actions, inactions, decisions, and obsessions. We are wallowing, yet again. All of the wallowing during the dark periods in 2003 and 2010 add up to naught when thrown into a comparison. The space is deep, black, and we are all the way in. The space... is negative.


Structure from God

The downward times are at hand, and the further drop is frightfully close now. We feel it at the end of the street. The drop IS the end of the street, the end of the journey, the end of everything. It is our end and it will be welcomed. Our lover the champagne has all but left us alone, and the path ahead is black. We cannot survive the difficulties as in years passed. Then, they were manageable... now, however, they are commanding. They are ruling us as no other. They have challenged us to rise and they have failed. We have been challenged to rise and we have failed. We are in the black.


The radii at issue...

The obsession has become too much for us. We can no longer contain ourselves during difficult situations and the potential issues within that space are going to kill us right quick. Last night was invaded by yet another example of art and the sight drove us to interfere. She sat there alone. She sat... tall and lanky... amazingly long fingers and thin wrists. She did not know, but she was calling us. Her form moved through time and space to arrive on a pedestal within our deviant and drowned view. The beautiful melody that was her shape beckoned our psyche and drew us from our seat and into her glowing aura. She sat... awaiting a friend, and instead became waylaid by unnerving intentions, questions, and the fascination and wonder of a child on Christmas morning. Conversation ensued, and she allowed us in. She allowed us visions of fingers, wrists, forearms, and her magnificent shoulders. Once the shoulders were exposed, we fell. And we are still down there. We know not how to rise, nor if we should rise. That type of experience is incredible beyond words and as rare as inspiration. We contained ourselves for the evening and spoke politely to her as we left. And, because of her openness and mesmerizing understanding toward our disturbed needs, she now rests among one other as representative of a truly genuine human being. Unreal. we crossed over, but somehow remained alive.

We are all the way in... all the way down... all the way among the black."

[01/29/2015 16:05 pst]

The purpose of this site has remained the same for nearly thirteen years. Nearly. Now, however, admin has smacked our asses in the direction he desires. As long as he is holding the pink slip, we go where instructed. The third domain will work its way here over time and we will link as appropriate. When the time arrives, the change will be apparent immediately.

No other section of this content has changed since the outset of fifteen, and as far as the staff can read, there are no changes in the foreseeable future. The new direction and admin's subsequent drivel will continue. Onward to the below...


"Pushing our research from inactive to active has so far created nothing aside from severe heartache and difficulty in dealing with thought. She was there, but the possibilities have run aground like so many past trips within the comfort of the yacht. The Geese have flown awry, and we have run aslant of the Skyy. Now, we shall sit within the dark circle of dreamy visions and slowly destroy ourselves. The options for us have narrowed so dramatically that every sliver of light has left our sight. The recent exploration has left us absolutely yearning for more but there is nothing... we have nothing... we see nothing. Our sight is now truncated into an aperture of hellish dimension. Just like so many beautiful tapers into dark places beyond comprehension, we have left but a slight angle inward from arduous journeys to impossibility


Demons shall welcome us into the fold...

Yes, the above is true. Her appearance and demeanor were that amazing. She floated above all with the softness of a cloud. She floated her unbelievable form through the space that others can occupy... the space that irrelevancy can occupy... the space which the detritus does occupy. She stood out like the Moon painted red. Her beauty is unreal and may never allow our hopes to come to fruition. The numbers are just not there. The numbers are too distant. The possibility is astronomical. As of just a few short days ago, our wound which has been hanging by a thread is now wide open and bleeding profusely. We cannot stop it to save ourselves. It bleeds all over us every day and night. There is no stopping the flow of blood from our painful existence. The fucking blood will soon drown us and overtake our frail frames and pull us down into nothingness like never before. It is happening right fucking now.


Inward tapers...

She is in total control of us now. Just a few short hours, a minuscule amount of time and her unreal beauty grasped our damaged minds and held on like nothing before. We were held, bound, immobilized, and happy to be there. We are still there... we are unable to move from this worst of turns. Fuck it all. We will go down with her vision within our drunken swirling heads and enjoy every goddamned second.

She is so worth it. She is worth every type of suffering and difficulty. She is worth everything. Just she. Her. Unreal... to the last. In these late days, the idea of forgetting is beyond us. She is inside us... all the way, and the overwhelming needs within us are now shaped by her.



These terms we have discussed at length with the Vegas confidante, and her opinion was this: 'Go there and never return. If you should fall, remain fallen. If you should rise, the fall will come later. Guaranteed. There is no going back. Fulfillment for five minutes is more than most will ever experience.' God damn her for being correct. Her insight is invaluable.

We will fall all the way to the blackness, smiling all the while. We will inhabit the blackness until it expels us. We will embrace the blackness until we can hold on no longer. We will fucking do it. The time for happiness is nigh."

[02/02/2015 whothefuckcares pst]

Admin speaks... we listen. He knows not what he writes, but we publish.

As stated days ago, the content is stagnant other than the words below.


"Jesus fucking Harold Christ. How did we get here? How did such an interest turn to an obsession beyond belief and drive us into the ground? Are the numbers so valuable to have this sort of power over our entire existence? Fuck. We should have remained female. Should have. Things could look radically different now, and though there is no guarantee of such feeling the possibility is there. Fuck. Just fuck. Inactive was fine. Now we are buried.

Bullshit. Inactive was far from fine. We need the transformation and change like we need breathable air. We simply cannot and will not go on in any fashion without the numbers. They control us just as she does. There is no getting around such things. The numbers rule us, and we obey. If they instruct us to move in a given direction, we do. Our current direction has been dictated by the numbers. Currently, we do not see another way. We cannot see much of anything, actually. We cannot move away, nor can we move toward. The entire obsessive issue is decidedly out of our hands right now. Some semblance of control at this point would be pleasant. But, fuck it... we abide. We will sit and drown until otherwise instructed. Once again, fuck it all anyway.

We. Should. Have. Remained. Female. For. Fuck's. Sake. But we sat on our stupid asses and did nothing. And now here we are at this hellish and distorted junction which will likely kill us very soon. That is fine.


We shall travel to Hell upon the radii

We feel nothing save for heartache now. We have been relegated to a fetal position in which we can only attempt to understand why our existence must operate in such a cruel and damning manner. Obsession can be damaging, and that is precisely where we reside at this very moment. The planet may crash and force us below into the magma. As stated above, that is fine. Let it happen. Freedom from thought seems bliss now. Freedom from visions and dreams. Ride the magma waves and burn with the rock. Fall beneath the overwhelming pressure and heat. Crushed, melted, gone. No more thought. Fuck that sounds perfect. Lush and beautiful landscapes give way to endless flame. Push us in.


Miss O'Neil has long been an example

So where the fuck do we attempt to go from here? We have been here so long it feels like home. An insane and disjointed home, but nonetheless... we cannot deny. Upward is nearly impossible. Downward is already taking place as we type. Guinness, keyboard, Neige, thought. This is part of our home now. We can stay here and remain, but soon the knife will call. We can leave, but that option has been attempted and failed several times -- none of which led to the knife. Still, the exit remains illuminated as it must. Without such a choice we cannot function. We need it just as we need the lover (read: alcohol). The top image of Miss O'Neil is an unbelievable example of the cause of this turn. She is far away, of course, but the image stands as a demonstration of the drive, obsession, and subsequent fall into the black (we know it all too well). The fall has taken place many times, but this latest is the worst possible outcome from the most possible beauty. The beginning and end of everything... of us. Our beginning and end, and that is a dramatic understatement. Why does the beginning also have to mark the fucking end? Why the fuck? Where are we and how did we get to this place? Beauty, dismal thought, love, death.

God damn this entire life. Please... someone just up and damn the whole fucking thing. We will happily be damned right along with the sewage."

[02/07/2015 07:02 pst]

Admin speaks again, and this time directly:

"The remainder of this site will sit unchanged from this day forward. The only motivation I have for continuing in the vein of which the staff has recommended is them. I have none myself. I do not see a point to this endeavor other than fluidity of site history. That will remain as it has throughout the last ten years. Archives, images, banter, whatever-the-fuck. All of it will stay, and the only updating shall be the italicized text after the hexagram. That is all. The staff will notify readers if my mind changes. Over and the fuck out."

So there you have it, readers. As always, we go where steered. Period. And now, the below.


"We cannot expect to survive this latest of forays into the blackness. Her darkness and unbelievable pull upon our senses is too much. We just cannot resist and the change will cause all manner of chaos, terror, confusion and pain. The change will also provide the highest order of our dreams coming to light. This will be the end of all things and such an end is welcomed like nothing before in our lives. She has become everything and the fall that is before us is the only lit path from the now. The idea of resisting has gone away. Far away. We must simply go and relinquish control of our souls to her. Just her.

God damn the fucking universe for doing this... causing this... allowing this terrible and wonderful dream to light.

Why did we need to achieve this? We dreamed, yearned, drew, wrote, discussed, obsessed, and pushed everything aside just to have the opportunity to explore. Now that we have, there is no fucking going back. We must stay because any other option becomes death. Which is fine. With such a situation, we need not worry about worry.


As she is...

We are mere puppets now. And we love it to no end. Until now the only beauty was partly surface and partly subsurface. Now they are one and the same and endless. We follow our strings as she pulls them. She is above us now. Her hands and mind are God. We follow as she instructs... we live as she dictates... we will die at her command. We have no other way. The paths of possibility are no longer illuminated as years ago when times were wide-eyed and hopeful. Our hopes now depend upon her whims and wishes. We are hers for all time. We are close to the end. The end expected, but not unwanted. The end we always knew but never knew possible. The end we dreamed of for a decade. End us. We are hers.


There is nothing else

We will doubtless die in sight of reality anyway. The openness she has provided and the unbelievable and unexpected comprehension that came along with it are staggering to say the least. As we sit mired and twisted into the detritus, the thoughts of understanding are paramount. Without them, thoughts of beauty, and dreams of vision, we are fucking dead. Well, we are dead anyway. That is the only solution to years-long yearning and heartache followed by a glimpse and connection with the most compelling dream imaginable. We will be in the ground, and the solution cannot be anything of note, because we are not anyone of note -- and never have been. Mired, twisted, disfigured, and sullen for too long."

[02/10/2015 17:05 pst]

Admin will begin titling his journal entries, for whatever it is worth. During the black MySpace period, all entries to that blog were time stamped, emotionalized, categorized, and titled. From this point forward, that vein shall continue. Below.



The Air

"Well now. We have inhabited this small space before. The dreams and hopes are different now, but the space remains as it always has... a three by three by three vacuous cube. Just enough breathable air comes in from time to time serving to keep us alive. Motionless, thoughtful, and yearning for the occasional air to reach us, we are. For the last several days, this is it. This is all. We wait for the air and while it flows we are in heaven. The opposite is injected into our hearts when that beautiful air stops -- hell. We are there now. Just the flame of existence, and our bodies enmeshed within the machine. All manner of visions, dreams, thoughts invade whilst waiting, and the discomfort can be extreme. The air provides such a life-filled feeling and allows our eyes to be opened... it is everything. The air brings us so much that when it is not there we immediately snap into a disfigured and broken silhouette of our former selves. Any blood stops flowing, cold remains, light dims, and we cannot function. We are no longer human. We are merely meat shoved into a box.

And we will remain miserable, cold, torn, and distorted just for the occasional short breath of the air which now keeps us alive.



Perhaps we are not in a box, but a hole. The cold flows, dry and blistering, like the breath of the devil. The air brings warmth and as it exits we freeze into our disjointed world once again. We are there. We are fucking there all too often. We need the goddamned air. Unfortunately, the air is vastly unavailable and as we yearn and wish it eludes. The possibility of more air constantly floats just out of reach and forces us to grasp over and over. The air is right there... thousandths of an inch beyond our frail and dying fingers. It is there... right fucking there. We may just die in this position -- mangled as we are.



How long can this last? Will there be an end? And will it be the end expected? Fucking hell.

We have railed at length and for years over the distress which brings us to a reckless and desperate point. Written drunken and hellish thoughts over the decision which for all time has eluded us. Now an entirely new decision? Fuck. Someone please bring the hammer we need and drive the nail we already display which is embedded -- partially -- within our damaged temple. Drive it in the remainder of its journey and place our thoughts into oblivion. Fuck. Please? We apparently cannot accomplish this ourselves due to endless fucking thoughts, confusion, contemplation and alcohol.

In this small space we shall remain until otherwise motivated and drawn to that beautiful air. Why must it be out of reach? Just fucking why? We need it. We fucking NEED it like the sun needs to burn. We need all of it and there is no other way to survive. The air. The fucking beautiful air. There simply is nothing else for us now... no music... no tears... no joy... no push forward. There is nothing and we are cemented into said nothingness like a fossil within granite.

She is the air."

[02/19/2015 17:17 pst]

The latest writing has been published.

Also, admin has decided to continue living for a short time. We rejoice.

Recent backend work has taken much time and effort, and the result is quicker load times. To most, this makes for some boring blogging... to the staff, however, it is bliss. We do enjoy seeing the numbers head toward the positive.

Years ago we put much effort into scripting, formatting and streamlining admin's short-lived Trailer Design content. That section of this site has been offline for several years now, but the work has continued. We do strive to keep her dream organized and possible. We also frequently urge him to continue that work. His design was ahead of its time and very beautifully drawn and written. We will roll on trying to get that project back into the eyes of the world but unfortunately the ultimate decision is his. He still holds the pink slip.

In other matters, our recent migration back to Network Solutions has been a godsend for pushing through the development environment. Their attention to the needs of those of us who work with ASP.NET server pages has remained outstanding. A comparison to the original MS-based hosting would not look favorable upon their choices and recommendations for web space. In short, things are good for the site. Yes!

Without further ado, on to his lousy mood yet again (we go where steered)...



The Rope

"These past several days have shown us ambiguity, confusion, pain, and difficulty. Considering ourselves aslant of the walls of life, we are now connected to the world via rope. Sisal... no. Cotton... no. Nylon... no. This is different. The rope has been fashioned from experiences. It has been crafted and changed throughout many years and hundreds of small backward steps. Every striation displays the repeating pain and sorrow of the past. Each nuance... each feeling... all are there twisted, braided, and convoluted. Strain, stretch, relief. Repeated over and over throughout the strands. The rope bleeds our feelings and drips upon us. We are suspended from this hellish rope and covered in blood. We hang here, holding on, but are somehow a part of the endless bleeding. The rope binds us as we await the air. The rope is cinched tightly and we cannot move. Just as the box, we are motionless. The rope is short... nailed to a wall, and weak from the cuts we continuously make. The knife is always there ready to cut us free, but there is no below. Freedom from the rope = straight into the fall.


...with her.

That freedom will continue to elude us no matter the events of each day nor the hopes which connect. We no longer have control over such things due to the rope which binds and bleeds. The fucking rope shall be our end. Point up... fall down. Look up... fall down. Push up... fall down. There is no change whatsoever. The knife continually comes into play and we are helpless to control the cuts. The knife gashes when we least expect. It calls to us from near and from afar and we must obey. We must keep the cuts. We are the cuts. We are frozen into this position such as we have created for ourselves yet somehow we belong here within this hell, and we have always known. We have spent thousands of nights full of nightmares, tears and fear, and wallowing (without fucking self-pity) secure in the knowledge that we belong. We must be here... always. There simply is no other way to continue breathing, yet there simply is no way to remain alive. The conundrum rules our very existence and the helpless feelings dictate our words and actions. Cemented, fucked, depressed, closed, blind, and yearning. Forever.

Normally, the next several words would be a repeat of so many passed days... 'How did we arrive here?'. Well, we knoweth. We have always known. We have spent far too much time parked in front of the fucking markup to not experience that stupid realization. Many, many, many days have resulted in the secure knowledge that we are here of our own volition, decisions and mistakes. One day soon, however, that will come to a crashing halt for us and others...

We will be most decidedly gone."

[02/22/2015 16:04 pst]

The newest push forward will be the incorporation of the long dead blogs from the MS days. The section will require a tremendous amount of time to fabricate and populate but we feel the need will be served nicely. Those days were the catalyst which served to stir many of the staff members from Obsidian Wraith as well as Fimbulvinter and bring them here to work for this maniac. The blogs will eventually be indexed into the Writings section and will likely be archived back to front just as these updates. Some are disturbing, so be mentally prepared.

In other matters, site business is very slow, as usual. The numbers are just not rising as we had hoped. The analytics show everything we need but the bounce is still quite high despite recent promotion efforts. We will continue to strive no matter the circumstances.

We do have word from on high that the trailer design section is too difficult with which to work at this point. Admin has expressed his concern over dredging up old feelings related to that project so we have put it aside. Sad, but necessary.



The Fall

"...and we are not referring to the fourth season. Not by a damned sight. Fuck that. We are mired like never before and the feeling is both enthralling and eluding. Recent hells have placed us within the darkest of thoughts as well as the darkest of beauty. We cannot remain here nor can we move. The rope, the air, the fucking delusional behavior... nothing pulls us from the inevitable fall which now dominates. The lover of so many years upon which we have placed our feelings, dreams, fears, and fucking negative behaviors has not left us. She is here... in hand... in mouth... in liver... in heart. She lifts and she presses. She loves us and she hates us like nothing else. She pulls us up to her mighty shoulders and then slams us into the ground with force unknown. She is in decided command and we are helpless. She fucking kills us every goddamned time. We have been deathly sentenced by her and we remain willing to dwell in the black for all fucking time. Along with the fucking dark beauty, we mix. We combine the lover and the beauty. We add depression, longing, need, instability, recklessness, restlessness, fear, self-loathing, desperation and a dash of suicidal thought and the resulting cocktail is our home. The cocktail that is our life. We will stay within the black because as we love and hate it we are safe in the fucking knowledge that this place was designed and fabricated specifically for us.

By us.

And there may be a bit of her in there, too.


The staff told us we could not publish this image... fuck them.

So we sit here and wonder... not the 'why' and not the 'how', but the 'why not' and the 'how otherwise'. We know it all too well, this feeling. We have lived and died by it. We have slept with it and drank it. We have forced it into our bloodstream with all conviction. We are here to stay. Though the past has shown us (albeit temporarily) the light of hopeful thought and wide-eyed (blind) vision, we know better. Destiny? Nope. Fate? Nope. Such things are for the others and we have stated and railed about that for years (so did Reiko). No, our devices and desires have placed us among the black. Jesus himself could fly down here fresh off the cross and we would state the same.

Moses said 'If you will not live by the law, then die by the law'. The cocktail of life is our law. It dictates EVERYTHING.

We obey.

We will die anyway, but at least we understand the reason."


Many blue and green moons ago Reiko wrote a blog for MS which was entitled 'The Hopes and the Beauty'. Soon after, another one of her wondrous and disturbed entries popped up on MS... 'The Yachts and the People'. These were both run past us before being placed in the global eyes, but still there was no reason. Her mind is as ours... damaged and deviant. The first blog relates closely to The Rope above as it uses 'beauty' to represent a person, not simply an adjective. Reiko's use of that term repeated throughout hundreds of essays, short stories, and her infamous one-line summaries of society. [As an aside, we already know to whom she referred. She is a strict lesbian and could only have been describing a female, and we know precisely who that person was.] Anyway, the term has resounded in our minds for years thanks to her formidable wordsmithing. To use it here (with her permission, of course) is a sign of respect and appreciation. Reiko employed 'beauty' as well as 'her' quite often and with staggering results as to the direction of her writings.

The second entry mentioned above used the term 'people' to refer to the whole of society -- both past and present. She had a talent for using generalization from a unique standpoint which, as of this date, remains unparalleled in our hearts and minds. When we toss that term into a blog or essay, the power she wielded is simply not present. We try. We fail. She listens. Yikes. Still, the ideas and expressions produced by her pen have had a hand in pressing us into quite the similar mold. Of course, we formulate our own lines but the fact remains that she has been the largest single influence upon our phrasing.

The idea of us bringing Reiko's body of work into this realm is for no good reason other than to give her the respect she so richly deserves. The time period of her fantastic creativity (roughly 2008-2010) was short lived. As was her sanity.


The mind herself

We will not turn this into some sort of twisted requiem for her, but every now and then we must tip our distorted and drunken heads to her and say hello. She is so worth it. She drove us into her heart and into the ground like no other influence on earth. Eventually, her words will be here alongside ours. We have had a short conversation with her (in a fucking bar, of course. She dwells nowhere else.) and the conclusion is that she appreciates the connection to us and feels diminished by the power of the site. We feel equally smalled.

So be it.

[03/08/2015 13:22 pdt]

Reiko's words will be addendums until she is dead.

And she is most decidedly dying before our eyes. She will soon leave this place and lie among the fish.

Admin has expressed to us that he no longer wishes for images of the female form gracing the index. The past images will remain and the front end will move forward into other territories. We agree.



The Crushing and the Fish

"We have absolutely no idea where anything will lead, but the lead is there nonetheless. We are in some direction other than to the rear. Sometimes to the rear, just not at this time. Sideways. Lateral. Off a bit to the left probably. What is over there? Difficulty. Much difficulty... however we are going in that odd direction anyway. The path is foggy just as the air outside the cocoon hanging from the balcony. The fog sat and attempted to chill us but the alcohol took control and we warmed from the inside. Now we are cooled by thought. Frozen at times. Cooled through worry, dissatisfaction, fear, longing, need, and a lack of knowledge. We continue to feel the cold and continue to move through it. Among it. Inside it. The cool thought has engulfed us to the point of becoming blinded. Fuck. Snow.

"For once I wish to see
the entity behind the voice.
The face of this seduction,
the beauty of my pain.

The cold is heavy. The weight of it is almost too much to bear but we keep moving despite the massive and overbearing feelings. They chill us to the point of trembling as the hypoglycemic days of the past. Now, however, donuts will not assist us in removing the nerves. Not this time. No fucking way. There is one thing reserved for that, and unfortunately at this moment it is decidedly in charge of our being and far from our control.


The Question.

Vacant no longer. We are occupied to the core. The frozen, twisted core. Will this end and will we be better for it happening? Perhaps. We can hope. We are hoping. Mired and hopeful. Mired YET hopeful. We have been here before and the result was a harsh left turn. This time we cannot turn, nor can we attempt to turn away. The path dictates and we are hopelessly helpless yet again. The situation is near that of 03, nearer to that of 10, and we now have the path into and eventually through 15. And it began early this time. The differences are stark and glowing and if the outcome this time proves worth the hells... well it would. It could. It should. Should? Fuck no, scratch that last. Earlier we were carried by Alcest but that has not graced the loudspeakers nor the headphones for more than a week now. Alcest will put us down strikingly quick and that is not a place we should be occupying right now. We need up. Way the fuck up. Dio Artio is attempting to lift us at this moment. Perhaps we will stay up there for a short while, perhaps longer. There is no knowing for certain until the situation pushes us in the same direction. That direction is damned elusive right now but still we remain at its mercy.

And the cold is crushing us. Crushing.

We are all over the goddamned map today. Likely the ridiculous time change is at fault yet again. We hate it with endless passion. Leave the fucking clock alone please. Let the sun dictate, you idiots. Oh well. The sun will destroy everything in time anyway. Bring it.

The crushing. That is an apt title this day. As much as we can love and hate the crushing cold, such is necessary for us to think at all. We feel it and need it and have no choice in the matter. The thoughts are so cold. We will happily freeze ourselves away and into nothingness. We have wished for a lift since the bleach box of fifteen and that lift arrived (and none too soon, either). We were so far down there was no semblance of up at all and then so far up there was fulfillment like at no other moment in life. Unfortunately, that lift is not clear. The clarity is not within our control but we may not survive without it. We are still trying. We will try until everything is open and lit. As we have stated repeatedly and at length, this situation will either change us or destroy us completely and either of those outcomes is acceptable. Choice no longer exists.

Our money is on destruction. All of it. Hopefully wrong, but again... we are helpless.


We need them to stop the tears

And now the fish. Dead fish. Dead tilapia on the salty shore. In the rocks. In the sand. In our eyes. In our minds. Everywhere. Thousands of them staring up at us as if to ask why. We cannot answer. We tried and tried and they just stared. We caused them to see us and ask, and they understand that we cannot help. We can do nothing other than photograph. We need to go back there and soon. The Nikon is gone forever, but we can do something... anything to attempt to help them to understand. They just lie there staring at us. Some up, some to the side, and many down. Staring. We love them and loved them. We spoke to them. They acknowledged us. We spoke again. They loved us. They are still there and we must go and acknowledge them yet again. Soon. We simply cannot stay away from their tragic beauty, their pungent scent, their open mouths, their razor teeth, and their wish to know. We just fucking love them to no end. So fucking far detached and so very far away but the necessity will kill us with nary a thought. And then we must join them on the shore. We must. They amaze us in their solemn positioning and vast numbers. We do not amaze them. They are dead. But they speak across hundreds of miles and we hear. We hear them with our hearts and we cry over and fucking over until the pillows have drowned.

They are so fucking beautiful that words fail miserably. Fail and fail and fail, but still we try.

Now is not the time to see them, though. We cannot venture there until December, but we will go and go quickly. Cost and time be damned. We fucking need to see them so badly that the fucking tears are flowing like the Colorado in spring. They await us and sadness prevails, as it always will. We wish to be among their fallen selves. We will be... we must be... we yearn. Not even the Beauty can assist and bring us out of the vast sorrow that is the fish. We must reconnect with their souls and ponder the why. There is to be no clear answer, however. While we sat and gazed upon their solemn situation we rose above all else. We know not how, but it happened anyway. We rose, and that is a strong statement considering our perpetually frail state. Ours is nothing compared to their endless monument, mind you, and we can only hope to identify. They are many, we are one. Tears aplenty. We just love them to no end.

'Hello... our name is coma and we are a tilapiaholic.'

But not just any old fish... them. Those poor lovely souls splayed out in the endless sun and salt. They lie there in splendor and speak indiscriminately to whomever may pass and no one hears. No one, save for us. We have heard in spades for years now and we respond from our heavy hearts. We respond in hope, in time, in sadness, and in mutual need. We must go to them, fucking up and leave... to them... for them... with them. Jesus fuck do we need it. Bad. We are held now, but soon we will fucking run with no thought of distraction nor acceptance of impediment. We will go. They call, we run. Believe it, because as we sit our miserable and downtrodden asses in this chair we will fucking make it happen."


Here I am. Surprised? I certainly am as such. I never thought I would write for the world again but whatever. And I must add that the image of me is old (as am I... fucking older than shit now) and I scarcely approve of it being placed for all to see. Admin just took it upon herself to toss my face into the fucking mix. What a fucker. I think she secretly lusts after my sisters.

Again... whatever.

I have been asked at length to contribute here and for all the good it may provide. I can do that, and will return.



[03/16/2015 10:46 pdt]

The direction of the site has rotated yet again. From the curves of the early year it has moved back into the threadbare times of two thousand three. Admin spins his thoughts, Reiko spins her own thoughts, and we go where directed. Once again, we are in awe of the words and feel good about publishing. We have not felt this good in months.

Other sections are seeing backend improvements thanks to this wonderful interface which assists in the markup like you would not believe. We do enjoy pushing forth into the unknown with these two writers and hopefully the numbers will match our wonder. As we no longer plod along at less than one hundred megabits, production as well as development are streamlined like no other time in site history. Happiness. Forward. Yes.

On a related note, since she is now contributing to this big mess, we thought it appropriate to include her image below the Master menu to the left. Admin had nothing to say other than comments about her ongoing beauty. Inappropriate, yes, but at least to the upside.



The Need and the Salt

"We remain grossly out of balance, even in these latest of days. We cannot help it and fifteen has been defined by this feeling. Fifteen... we are here no matter the desires, needs, wants, nor absence of sense. We are within the Need and said Need has become everything to us. We are surrounded... engulfed... loving and despising it. The Need of a lifetime. The Need has taken us beyond ourselves.

This is profoundly powerful. Unexpected, but not unwanted. And now we are helpless and held. The Need for the Beauty.

No matter our daily routines nor activities even beyond our little cocoon, the Need presses us into a mold of something unrecognizable, even to ourselves. We do not see it in the mirror but we feel it through those windows which display so much. We feel it pulling us upward and into dreams as nothing else in this world... past or present. Somehow this is where we wish to be. We wished and wished for decades and now we are here and the feeling is almost too much to bear. Almost. We are still pushing, remaining fairly positive for the most part but still the Need presses in many directions at once. Night is good, filled with dreams unrelated and that fact helps to keep us in mind of other aspects of life. Those parts are difficult upon which to concentrate but necessary for our emotional health. Another need? Not really... just a distraction from the Need.

Our daily activities -- all of them, from the simplest to the most complex -- have now become background noise. There is no other way and no other definition. The Need is as a strong wind from every direction, both external as well as internal. Such wind does not allow us concentration upon anything else. Little tidbits of attention are here and there randomly. Sleep, food, work, alcohol, writing... all are scattered now. Fragmented. And we cannot push in any specific direction due to all of the tremendous pulls. A step over there and we stop. A step back and we hold. A step anywhere has become a wasted effort in the extreme. The Need will not let up nor will it allow us lead. It is everything.

"Upon these seas,
wherein I drowned so many times,
I scatter the ashes of destiny.
Still my flames are in hunger.
With fire in my heart
shall I greet the shores ahead.
Though, I know not what will burn."


Too many directions

Where will we end? Within the Need or otherwise? We can only hope...

And the hope is narrow, gray, solemn. We are solemn. We await the answers with impatience and sorrow. The losses of the passed days and years are upon our shoulders constantly and we cannot let them go. They have made us into their image for all time. There is no escape which we can see or feel. We still pass the days somehow. We are in every direction at once while the Need is upon us. As odd as it may sound, we need the Need. Does it need us just as the fish? We do not and cannot know this. We just await. There is little else of which we are now capable.


Roll your six thousand horses over us

The fucking staff needs to drink for fuck's sake. A lot.

Salt. We walked upon it, photographed it, sat in it, tasted it. The salt holds the fish warmly and thoroughly. It holds everything. The salt is so fucking beautiful in the Winter sun that we cannot understand from where it comes. White salt, precious and gleaming. White salt everywhere. We love the salt along with the feeling of breathing among the warmth and scent. We sat there... gazing, crying, loving it to no end. The fish spoke to us and called endlessly from the salt and we heard. We tasted it again, acidic and dry. We held it in our frail hands while walking and wishing for explanation. We still wish every fucking day. We sit here at the keyboard and wish ourselves into drunken oblivion because the salt calls and we cannot respond in kind.


Decades of remorse

We walked that shore for days and days. The beauty overwhelmed us in every conceivable way and still we did not understand from where it grew. Grew? No... very little growing in that barren place. The only growth was our unending appreciation for the forces which worked that area and brought us to our depressed knees. With all haste the salt was injected deep within us and remains to this day. The salt flavors our thoughts, colors our feelings, takes our breath away... still. We cannot deny the power of that place and the feelings we now hold so tremendously dear. Our hearts are filled completely with love for the haphazard, blackened and sorrowful nature of the Sea and all of the sprawling need it holds. It needs us to go there and love again, and we need to be there to comfort the wondrous and delicate fringes of this world that have been dismissed and forgotten so savagely. The salt lays there cut and in disarray. It holds the fish, the shells, the feelings, and the memories of life thrown away. We. Fucking. Love. It. All. Like. Nothing. Else. Anywhere. We are fucking within the salt forever.

The feelings and love burn us from inside and we remain black. The beautiful salt is forgotten by so many, yet it pulls us like a lover. It pulls us toward the Sea with nary a thought to our well being. Damn it all except the salt, the fish, and the tears for both. We will sit here and cry for that place forever. We cannot help it, because to do otherwise is to turn away like all of the others. We cannot. We must continue to explore our feelings of the salt and all connected to it. We must feel it as deeply as possible. We must...

There is no longer any other way to live. We will sit here like idiots and write until the fucking computer dies and then we will resort back to the notepad and a bar. We will write and feel and love and write. We goddamned need it. The salt is a part of something which was and could still be wondrous, glowing, and displaying the loveliness of everything. But no. It is forgotten and pushed away like the fish. It is and has been just something lying there dormant and dead. Like the fish. Fucking dead. Our souls defy the feelings of others, of the world, and push to appreciate the vastness and tormented past which is that place. We will return and love it up close. We will be within the embrace of the ostracized salt and all which inhabits. We will put ourselves aside for the love of the salt, the fish, and the endless shore. We will sit among history and breathe in that which the others have forsaken. Fuck them all... fuck their dismissal... fuck their dis- everything. Just fuck them. Place them in front of us and we will make them a part of the salt. We will bury them within the beautiful and loving fish. We will destroy them with no remorse. We will show them the value of what they do not see anymore. We will fucking push them into the Sea and watch them die just as so much they have walked upon for years. We will make them a part of that which they dislike, and then we will cry and love the past glory of the salt and the fish.

Fuck them all and for all time. The goddamned salt needs us and we may need to run to it and spill our gallons of tears of which we have been reserving. Our tears will add to the salt... some of which are already there. We left tears and tasted and loved the combination of our salt and that of the Sea. We wish to be one.

The fucking salt did this to us and we were unprepared for its power. The salt remains a part of our disjointed souls... still. Nearly five years since we walked upon and among the beautiful and sprawling wonder of it and we are still there, somehow. We cannot leave, yet we cannot help. We need... we need and need and fucking goddamned need. Jesus. How did we become so attached to all that is the Sea? Understanding is all but gone from our hearts. Love still remains there but the knowing has left us. Now we are sitting here humbled and thoughtful during yet another passage of the epic 'Behold The Vastness and Sorrow' by Wolves In The Throne Room. We listen and dream of the salt and fish, and the only saving throw is to cry endlessly. As of this hour -- nearly 16:00 today -- we are still drowning the keyboard and desk and alcohol with our tears. Just fucking tears and we know of no end. God the Sea is beautiful. Yes, we call to Him in drastic need of understanding. This is far out of character for us but still there is no other source of help now. The salt is in our blood and we will gladly shed any amount of blood for it in return. Any amount. The salt is worth all of the pain. The salt is the pain. The salt is in pain. The salt is our love, just as the fish.

We. Love. You. Endlessly. Hear us. Feel us. Touch our sea of tears. Please. And let us hold you in our hearts.

We shall visit soon, and we shall drown in your touching beauty... splayed for all to see.

Now we shall cry.

The desk is soft with our tears and we will step away."


Admin is a tough act to follow. That passionate fucking human being.


Fuck you all. Yes, you reading this... the person next to you, the people near you on the road today... fuck you. Why? Hmm... let us explore.

During the MySpace years I railed and railed about society. The subject is still in there deep as fuck. Every single time I hit the road in hopes of getting to a destination in one piece, they are there. Dipshits aplenty. Why? They will always be there in their selfish little cocoons with their stupid phones. They don't care. They don't think. They should not exist, but such is the damned result of our society focusing upon everything unimportant. This will continue, drop, continue, drop further. Just fucking drop. She wanted opinion... here it is.

The asshole meter was in the fucking red early this morning. For some reason, large groups of dipshits had formed on the roadway and proceeded to attempt a revolt. Perhaps the coffee/cocaine/crack slurping was waning and everyone became bored. Who knows? People in that much of a fucking hurry to get to work are difficult to understand on any level. I know my blogs have outlined this in spades in the past, but an honorable mention seems requisite this day. My dissatisfaction with the working public and their ingrown lack of common sense and compassion is certainly a helpful catalyst for this next thought...

The dark, cool, wondrous morning atmosphere always invites me to take that left-turn to nowhere and just leave all of this behind, and today is no different. In fact, that delicious option came earlier than usual. Just a mile from home and I was ready to fly the fucking coop and take off for parts unexplored. All I need is a bit of a bump from the correct source and a red light from the asshole meter to make that happen. A ride to an agreeable breakfast locale and then off for the airport sounds wonderful. Jesus, that would be such an adventure despite the likely suicide at the end. Oh well - every vacation has its downside, right? Would blaming the assholes for my premature death make me nuts? Perhaps I already have plunged into that soup.

Also... I have decided to continue writing here for the foreseeable future, and for whatever fucking good may come of it. I was not going to spend much time in this little space but what the fuck.


Deserted beauty

[04/05/2015 09:39 pdt]

As admin plunges into the void, we keep the faith. He is going through something he will not share at all but the show must go on, so here we are.

New additions to the gallery section are in the works. One will be a display of the images here which began appearing in January of this year. The gallery will likely remain locked so as to allow only invited guests to view the content. An unfortunate situation, but necessary nonetheless. Also, more images from December 2010 will be added. We do enjoy seeing the work.

When this endeavor began in early 2002 we were skeptical of the outcome heading to the positive. The start was a simple one, with only Adobe being used for the minor editing tasks. Now, however, the frontend is complex enough to require daily maintenance. To this end, we are attempting to solicit help from whomever may offer (and finds this place worthwhile). This is not currently entirely necessary, mind you, but we do wish to expand at some point. As the site content sprawls outward with the sheer number of entries present we do need to ensure a smooth future with regard to server space and bandwidth. Just a thought.

Also, just as occurred with the 2002 archive, some of the content presently available will be shelved in order to avoid a hiatus. The site has gone awry in the past with such a necessary step and we may need to pull the index for massive changes. Stay tuned.


The Pain and the Palms

"For years we have strode the path of pain and it continues. We are still here among the pain of the unknown and the yearning for understanding our feelings. Five therapists and thousands of gallons of alcohol later and we are buried in the same detritus. We are under a blanket of hellish soil. Oh the beginning was clear and remains as such. We cannot deny these feelings at all. We placed ourselves neatly among those whom call for help and receive it, but our situation is vastly different from theirs. They never feel responsible for the thoughts and actions which brought them into the custody of the realm. We know all too well of every detail of what has placed us within the circle of their difficulty. We know every single handshake and every detail of each word. We can spell it out. We have spelled it out. Now, however, we are among the goddess and her dreamy existence. She did not place us within this sphere... we did. We allowed ourselves into her presence and now must deal with the consequences. Exploration will likely never end within us. And now the grass grows and lives above our sorry souls. The pain is unrelenting as it was in the past and now in the present. It is killing us with no remorse whatsoever. Killing us with no heart, no mind, no tears.

The Brunette felt it, saw it, lived it. She called for help more than once and sat and awaited our reaction. That pain is gone, for sure, but the remorse and grief over the situation remains as another well of ink resting on the shelf of life and yearning to be injected. Our billboard and broadcasting still incomplete, we await the correct time to display our hells.

They will come and be seen by all, as lessons should be.

Until then, however, we remain inward like never before. The situation during ten and eleven was short yet still appreciated. That period was painful and we now understand the source of such. It is here now and begins within us. The realm of the now sits as the latest difficult reminder of all others. It rests within and we do our damnedest to keep it there. If the pain is displayed openly, others are affected. But as of this moment, we have little choice in the matter. We are at its mercy constantly and miserably. The resolution is most unavailable just as so many questions left unanswered.

"No sacrifice too great
caught in another maze,
truly endless,
still this maze is mine."

salton palms 2


We are at a tremendous loss now. The feelings which have defined the past three years are still within and now are combined with the unexpected thoughts of fifteen. There is no out from this... no matter the contact, writing, writhing, nor alcohol. We have realized where we are and that place is now cemented as where we belong. Fucking black as pitch.

From the peak of dreams in the clouds to the depth of coal in the earth. We are now all the way down and into the knowledge against which we have pushed with our sordid hearts. We are here within these latest of days and the feeling is beyond that of twelve. That time flew awry quickly and seemed the worst. Now, however, it shines as bliss and the gradient is beyond anything imagined. Fifteen is the end of our hopes. We have been too close to the pinnacle. Far too close. Vision is narrowed, options have narrowed, we are narrow.

Narrow and black. Burned. Singed. Deflagrated to all hell. This fact is accepted because we knew it, felt it, and deserved it. The next feeling will also burn. It will destroy without mercy and afterward we will barely be human. Past feelings are simpler... shallower... without clarity of purpose. This is devastating. If only our eyes had not been wide and our desire available, we could have remained within the fiction. If only we had strength. If only we had wisdom. If only we had intelligence. If only we had vision beyond visible light. If only we had not been infants.

If only...

And the result is inner death and the end of our precious connection with the universe.

Such is the pain. Just as the Air, the Rope, the Fall, and the Crushing... the pain has become all. And it is ever increasing. And it is overtaking us. And it is unending.

Where in hell will we end after such difficulty? Who the fuck knows or can possibly know. The simple fact -- as stated in spades -- is that we placed ourselves here just as past situations. We made it happen and we will always make it happen. This has been and remains our path. The Beauty and all which accompanies.

Back to where we were... back to that place we despised... back into the cave of no understanding. Yes, that fucking place, ripe with the stench of decaying organs. Back there yet again. The Beauty is distant. At least the music is near. Blackest of metal.

salton palms


We heard the palms cry as we flew past on Highway 86. We heard them through the noisy music, through the din of the day, and through the calm conversation. We heard and stopped near their farms. With Nikon in hand and strapped to our beings we fled the car and into their waiting atmosphere of pain and love. They stood there... staring in need and wonder, just as us. Every step brought our hearts closer to their loving plight and toward their scent. No fruit, just fronds and deafening want. The palms gazed at us and we back at them. Their majestic stance and sprawling fans belittled us with every second of thought. We stood and looked up at them in the hazy dusk and they spoke to us. They spoke of loss and reverence. They spoke of life and mayhem. They spoke straight into our hearts with their unending power. They spoke loudly and without reservation.

And we listened.

And we armed the Nikon.

And we shot... again and again and ever again. They stood in somber skies and allowed us to shoot them over and over. Click... adjust... click click... and adjust. Never were they in our eyecup as they were in our hearts. The shutter release and mirror flip caused them no distress. We wandered among them and awaited the perfect symphony of aperture and sight, but to no avail. We tried to do them justice. We tried. Nothing. Nothing again. The lens was willing, however the mood was torn. It was torn up just as their world. Still, they stood there as monuments of loss. The loss of the past and the beauty tossed aside like so much trash. They stood there in pride and surrounded by enmity. They stood just as we did... searching for something to define and alleviate the sordid thoughts of their world pushed away and forgotten.

We shed tears, apologized deeply, and went away. We left them standing there and drove up 86... all the while staring back at what could have been.

Along the drive we discussed the possibilities, the loss, and the wonder of that place and those magnificent beings left to cry. We called upon our humanity and then called it into question. How could we admire and dismiss all at once? How could we drive away and back into the glowing light of high technology? How could we go on believing they would stand there for all time and be at peace? Not possible.

The images reflect their unending wonder and timeless beauty, however they also display the searing cuts which have left the palms to question their own future. Uncertainty. Vast uncertainty and burned hopes. The sadness goes on and on through the sand below and connects them to us like nothing else. We feel all of it... deep inside. Once again, we must return and attempt to spread their need just as our own. Unfortunately, the moodbox has displayed our continuing situation and resources as the pits that they remain. We cannot go now but we will return there and entrench our souls within the realm of the gazing palms and we will connect ourselves to them forever.

Nothing now. Nothing aside from sadness."


Reiko is unavailable at the present.


Deserted beauty

[06/13/2015 07:32 pdt]

The site remains alive for whatever reason. We continue to push forward in the hopes that the information presented here will eventually bear fruit. We believe in the search and the destination; both for us and for the others.

The minor backend scripting and tweaking has been simple these many weeks due to admin being away. He generally will write no matter his location but during May he has spoken not word one. Despite this, we have organized some of the past writings which have previously been archived and begun a transfer of the old Trailer Design into the age of the active server pages. The section will soon be live.

Another gallery is also in the works. Admin has begun to photograph once again so we will publish his work as soon as post processing is complete.


The Gap, the Bridge, and the Blood

"From one side to the other... symmetry. From top to bottom... disparity. We know not how this happened, however the beginning may have been our fascination with the uppermost radius. We now spend our miserable lives within that beautiful gap.

We sit within, and without. The gap is not only a physical manifestation of our dreams, but it is also where we reside -- the in-between. The space within which we have cemented our consciousness for years. And deeper we go with every new thought. The gap is tiny yet we fit squarely inside just as we knew we would. The warmth is not real, the look is not real, we are no longer real. We sit inside, folded like a paper clip, cold and confused as to our reasoning as well as our fear. We sit and gaze for hours, weeks.



Only glimpses are real.

The gap has pressed us into a misshapen mold for all time. Each new study presses further... ever further into nothingness and the future is now uncertain, compacted, shoved... we are tiny. We are held within the gap as nothing before. Imaging, illustration, writing and analysis have yielded only increasing questions and more of everything related. Study and emotional difficulty. Gazing. Longing. This is all we are now. A fraction of our former formidable selves. What could be next? Sculpting? Jesus.

'I Long' by Saturnus will soon become our theme of living.



Gap. The goddamned gap has become more than we ever imagined. And we can imagine tremendously. Years of it.


The most elusive of radii

The Nikon sits there awaiting a subject and the opportunity to capture the study of a lifetime. It sits and stares at our sorry faces. The lens. The shutter release. The dream. The fucking dream is moving in a direction and at a velocity we cannot currently match. She is there... out there... somewhere... however we know not the distance nor bearing. The Nikon laughs at us constantly and looms in our hearts. The Nikon needs to know her. To learn her. To explore her. Fully.

Alas... we sit here and listen to the Nikon day after day and sadness prevails. Fuck. She is not far, but also a billion miles distant. She... her. Fuck. Crap. Why? How? Where?

The radii and other dimensions are beginning to define our sorry lives once again. We cannot concentrate while engaged in any other activity due to the visions and dreams. We are here in the little space with room for nothing else other than our thoughts. And the thoughts regularly send us into the exosphere with all haste. One second everything is fine and we are operating as human beings. The next... we are confused, spinning, spiraling, panting, stumbling, bumbling fucking idiots with no capacity whatsoever for rational thought or intelligent conversation. The only thing left in this world for us is the beauty, but we will never know for certain. All of it is there... out of reach, and placing us out of our minds. We can take little more of this.


On the bridge

The bridge is a fucking double entendre from hell. As we sit here, the memory of the San Mateo bridge which carried us from glory to pain stands as representative of our unending capability for self-inflicted damage. Day after day we ponder the fallout from that difficult and demanding era. The bridge facilitated our demise with open arms and k-rails. Lights, pavement, delineators, and buttons. Rain. Wipers. Shifter. Amber glow. Ashtray. Metal. Glare. Dotted lines which wrapped us in need. The toll plaza which screamed at us to continue driving. We did. It screamed just as the gruff voices from the 7949. Screaming, driving, need.

We did it.

We continued.

We tossed it all aside with nary a thought to the dim future we were creating due to crossing that bridge. And now we live within and through the knowledge and understanding which has narrowed our lives to a thin and arduous line. A straight line. A line with no possibility of exit nor change. We are pushing and we are pushed. There is no view of options, no future of light, and no upward glance. We sit and sit and sit. On. Our. Asses. Our sorry sullen asses. Fourteen years from retirement age; fourteen years from what will become our downward slide into a Barcalounger... a calculated distance from the television monitor... a short distance from the diminutive beer fridge... a great distance from the beautiful portrait of comfort within which we would have rested. The portrait we knowingly destroyed. We drove it regardless of the physical, financial, and emotional implosions which were on the near horizon.

And we have arrived at the other side of everything.

As if early twelve was not enough, we continued downward. And the bridge became a path to visions of where we were and where we could have been. But here we are. Within. Without. There is no more 'with'. There is only the bridge which facilitated this, and the thoughts which forever bridge us to the past."


The other bridge

There it is above and again below. The space created by such disparity between the abdominal muscles and hip bones and subsequently bridged via a thin garment. Positioning dictates the look of said bridge but the fact remains... a fascinating display of radii. This latest of visions has become one with the gap. They appear together and become a space within our minds which has no equal. The beauty of such things is beyond words (even ours, for fuck's sake). We once stated that the beauty was on a pedestal upon which we rammed our sorry heads over and over until consciousness was gone. Well, here we are. The pedestal leaves us little choice and every femtosecond of our existence is dictated by the beauty. We will continue to gaze and worship the combination of the gap and the bridge until such time when we finally and freely become one with the fucking soil (soon).

The wondrous curves and disparity are nearly unreal and extremely rare. The vision of the bridge eludes just as that of the gap. Of course, and as always, it is there... right over there. But also forever far away. Since the outset of fifteen, we have amassed research and images toward some sort of end but we know not what end nor why. We sit at this infernal machine and attempt to understand from what direction the need and desire arrived. We just sit and think. Years ago the idea was how far the numbers could be pushed before the picture becomes unattractive, but now the idea is lost on our ridiculous need. Fuck.


Bridging the dreams

The fucking blood.

Since we are so far inside already, the idea now is to cause a bit of damage. That may be the only way out. We need to push through the boundaries within which we have consciously placed ourselves. This place is familiar, of course, but the darkness of fifteen is absolute. The boundaries (walls) are thick and dripping with the blood leftover from our rope. They are formidable. They are tall. They need to be destroyed. The blood lubricates our thoughts like nothing else. The blood flows downward just as we do. Down. Downward. Into nothingness. The blood not only flows over the walls, but over us as well. We are covered, smothered, writhing, pulsing.

The goddamned blood flows from us like a slow, lagging river. The blood is the only truth. The blood is the only fucking warmth in a sphere of cold and detached words. The blood is representative of the uncaring and unkind ways of those who should be within the underneath. We should also be there... within the fold of the blackened and decayed. The fold of the damned. The kingdom of the ghost. The blood will flow and create a river of sorrow and carry us there with all dispatch and in earnest. We will ride the river, floating along with the discarded sewage until rolling into the pile of detritus with the others. We will lie there for all time... cold and in the fold. There will be no more gap, radii, bridge, wonder. Nothing, save for the blood and our thoughts of that which could have been. We will lie there undead and underneath. The bottom. Finally."


Elusive as hell

There are no more chances, chance words, chance encounters. We have seen the top and the dream, but now said dream is gone. Just gone. The blood is all now. All of us, all within us, all over us. Blood. Warm then cold. Cold forever. The only saving grace seems to be the idea of the others lying within the below... drowned to death in the blood.

Despite this and other efforts over many years, no one listens to what we say to them. No one. We speak -- often hoping to inform or entertain -- and either are interrupted or treated as if we have trailed off in some odd direction. We will allow this behavior to pass no longer. We are not immune, yet have no wish to be the apparent boring human beings which we have become. No fucking more of this. Do we seem angry? You have no idea. We would love to simply burn down the world. We have proven our worthlessness and there can be no going back in time and so the flame should engulf all. The hour is late... the words are far too late... and the souls which have helped to keep us here are worn. Worn and fucking sullen.

The time to flip a switch is at hand like never before. The switch will flip and others will question, but to no avail. They will find no answers whatsoever. The answers will be long gone just as us. We have spent too much time attempting to tell them of circumstances and that time has burned. Burned blood of the past and present. The pungent stench of burning plasma. The ripe scent of blood on fire.



Fuck you all."


To be her is a dream. Her. Just her. Me as her. Unfortunately, just to say 'her' is to realize that this cannot be. A depressing thought? Of course, but one to which I am becoming accustomed. The idea that I must remain myself and will never find the ability to be her is not so damaging as other thoughts from my past. Sure, I do sit and wonder what my life might be like as her (even just to look like her) and a decent portion of my day is spent with her image in my head, but the difficulty is manageable. Lately I find myself wondering what she might be doing at a given moment. Sleeping? Eating? Traveling to a location for shooting? Who is to know? What I do know is that I could have been enjoying a similar lifestyle had I made different choices earlier in life. Enjoying? Perhaps. Of course, there is no guarantee that I would be happy, but the possibility cannot be denied.

This brings up a point of contention between my sister and I when we discuss such things: She believes something I cannot argue with - if I were to spontaneously change into another person, the fact is I would need to KNOW the difference. Otherwise the entire point is worthless. I am me and if I had the opportunity to be someone else I would need to keep the knowledge that I was me - the fact that I actually changed and could consider the difference. That makes perfect sense, but I had not put it into such terms before. Very interesting.

Well, the whole thing is just not possible so any further ANALysis is not required. I am already long-winded with this shit.

Does anyone like my new picture? It doesn't matter, really.

Ju Da Ha 1

The Korean Race Queen

In other bitching... could my therapy attendance be going away? That would seem to be the case. In this current of climates the corporation believes further cuts are necessary. That means my therapist may be on her way out. I just hope the corporation realizes precisely what types of cuts they are proceeding to make. Hmm.

Yesterday's session was not terribly organized. I tried to discuss the main issues for my seeking her in the first place, but quickly found that the outlining is not so simple. I could not focus nor could I articulate anything on my mind. That is unusual for me. In this place I can pour out whatever I wish or feel and no one knows me, but in that office I am sitting across from a person and seeing her eyes as I speak (during those moments when I look away from my own lap) and my mind conjures all manner of thoughts which may be in her head regardless of my knowing the truth. Again... hmm.

The feeling of embarrassment was overwhelming. I am telling someone of my feelings toward myself and toward my online presence and I cannot help but feel foolish and ridiculous. I do not believe in the possibility of a person not seeing what I see and I do not understand the distinction sometimes. Discussing issues (problems?) with her was easier at the beginning and since has become gradually more troubling. She is educated and trained to be objective and nonjudgemental, but my mind goes right in that direction immediately anyway. That is becoming a tremendous hindrance and is something I have not previously experienced.

Jesus fuck do I need alcohol.

[07/07/2015 18:11 pdt]

Dimensional Passion as a top-level domain is secure and waiting. The staff has been working fervently toward the new space but time is not our friend.

The Clodmaster has seen only backend inspiration and none of the work can be relayed to the production environment as of yet. We will update further as things pan out. Also, the TD is shelved again in order to ascertain the functionality required for streamlining with the current site face.


The Frenchman and Her

"Crooning with heart and soul. He throws it out and we listen like nothing on earth. We are in awe, not of his voice or the words, but of the atmosphere and feelings which take over our sorry consciousness. He delivers us into a place unlike any other and the visions begin to flow like the water over the Vernal Fall. The visions become everything and the words travel from our fingers and into the vast black hole that is the Internet. Just us and the infernal keyboard. The combination becomes hellish, disfigured, negative, and reckless. Such is us under the power of the creations of Neige. His endless beauty and surrounding visions serve to allow for the vicious and flowing pointed words which we draw as a blade to cut down the world. All else becomes alien and unrecognizable. All. Else. Just. The. Beauty of his voice remains. We yearn for it and the desire pushes us into some sort of lacking being... a lump of nothingness. Only the voice and the Beauty. The other Beauty. The unavailable sight.

We will segue.

We will fall.

We. Will. Fucking. Burn.

Neige 1

Commanding our passion

As the voice and emotion flows from the 701s, we sit as usual. We. Sit. Think. Plan. Design. Hopefully, all is not lost... yet. The organization and small ideas continue to move us forward at a snail's pace as the dreamy landscapes are painted before us. They entice and pull like none other (well, one other). We are pushing into something unrecognizable and the journey is an arduous trial. Fortunately, we still have the capability and time to cocoon ourselves within the necessary familiar. Without that, we are to become nothingness embodied. Always there is much to do so whenever we have the chance, shit changes to the positive. Shit needs to change. We must push. And the push feels fairly satisfying.

During the days of the original cocoon, we spent much time slimming the material things in order to create space both within the little apartment and inside our crowded minds. The resulting comfort was very nice. And we are moving in that direction even amidst the difficulties surrounding the Beauty and the Fall. Neige's voice helps to facilitate the feelings we experience during said organization of things. He brings a calm and spatial openness with which we have been able to relax and clearly work out troubling situations. They seem to be paramount these days (read: years). Not a moment passes within which we forget all of the past dealings and feelings. We dealt then via a carefully calculated mixture of alcohol, depression, and fits of very destructive and uncaring behavior.


Very close...

The Beauty of all time, and for all time. It is right over there but beyond reach like nothing else. The fucking lottery has better odds. Ever better. We breathe in the air but to no avail. We grasp the bloody rope but to no avail. We drink in the burning blood but to no avail. Nothing can push us from the visions and endless pull the Beauty has on our being. Nothing. She is most decidedly in charge of our beings. We cannot draw a breath... take a step... conjure a thought... without her permission and our subsequent gratitude. The Beauty is here to stay. The Beauty is all the way into our soul. She remains as representative of all definitions. She holds -- carries -- every number upon her and within. The numbers rule us and she rules us. But here we are far away and detached. Somewhere, for sure, within the vast wonder of the world the Beauty takes a millisecond to consider us... over here... longing... needing... dying... bleeding. Hopefully, because the other possibilities are not so pleasant. Perhaps the project of structure can be completed before we fall and burn out. Perhaps our years of study will come to fruition. Perhaps we will be allowed to worship as we should and as we need.

Perhaps the dream will not kill us first.

Perhaps the fucking moon will drop down low enough for us to suck the powdery soil and then fly the 238k miles back into orbit. Fucking hell the odds are unrelenting and unreal. They are also completely fair and understandable. The point remains... she is there and we are here and the time may come and it may not. It may fucking leave us on the porch of life with nary a possibility of walking out and away.



We are here and we were... there. There was good. Here can be good but it is nothing like there. There had possibilities and a future. Here has wonder and some possibility, but nowhere near the same.

We need a new there.

Where is it? Within? Without? Is it Her? The Beauty? Or perhaps some disjointed image of there? A distorted and twisted thought brought into focus and thrown randomly from our disturbed minds and onto some mangled canvas? Is it there? Is there actually there? Or is it here after all? Fuck it anyway. The solution... the answers... the definitions... all of them reside for and with the Beauty. When we were there the Beauty was a dream. Now we are here and the Beauty is real. She is there. We are there. Unfortunately the two are not one. Unfortunately the two places are strewn to the landscape of the blackened destruction within our soured consciousness. Fuck it anyway. We may make it back there, or we may burn here. No one is to know."


Point one. Since admin is discussing Her, I will too. Albeit a different Her.

A short while back I brought up my unending fucking desire to be Her and still the feeling lingers like pancake syrup on my bony hands. She is absolutely unreal in every way and a much better looking Asian than myself. Oh, I am not bad other than being a fucking middle-aged drunken negative hag, but She is a vision. All of Her. Lanky, tall, curvy (despite the thin), pale, big beautiful eyes.... oh gawd. I would swallow Her whole and not look back. Just dive the fuck in, baby. The real sushi! Yes! Oh fuck that will never happen. My desire is still there, of course, and the pictures are there, of course, however She is as distant as Neptune and me turning into Her is not possible. Not. Not. Not. Too much fucking not. Too much goddamned fucking not. Forever not. So, I will stare and dream just as I have since 2009 when I discussed Her with Maynard. He knew, and now I know. I also know that She is six years older now but I would still bend Her over anything and proceed to devour.

Ju Da Ha 2

Balance and poise

She seems to represent everything I wish to be but am not. One aspect I have is height. I am taller. That is all. I am a fluke and those around me have noticed. Whatever. Admin states the importance of height as it relates to scale, the golden ratio, and visual impact at first glance. Again... whatever. Of course, he seems to be versed in such things, but my opinion of myself supersedes all others. The images of Ju cannot be denied. She is a beauty like none other.

Ju Da Ha 3

Long and lean

Point two. An acquaintance of mine has taken issue with my use of colorful slang and colloquialisms in my blog and other areas. She told me that a 'nice girl' does not speak in such a manner. Well, fuck her. My writings are mine and as such must reflect my mind in its condition at the time of the entry. Lately (and for most of the last decade) I have been 90% pissed off and the rest of the time reasonably happy. Mood swings? Perhaps. Manic depressive? Hell yes. Don't like it?

Fuck you very much.

As for everyone else who visits me here - and they are only a handful at best - this is me and I apologize if she has caused me to speak with more of a potty mouth than usual. Honestly, I write what I feel. If I feel like some childish emphasis is necessary, suck it up.

I am not necessarily a 'nice girl'. Funny, admin knows this yet he still lets me publish here. Hmm.

Ju Da Ha 4

Tone and curve

This brings up another point which is related on several levels - point three - human beings are the worst species on this spinning globe. We have turned it into absolute shit over many thousands of years and we still do. We have not changed, and the interconnectedness of everything now only serves to press us into the fucking distorted mold we have been destined to inhabit. People are on about the smallest issues and cannot seem to see it. They are caught up in everything which is unimportant and stuck on suck. They sit and watch the most inane apathetic content in order to boost their own self-image and are doing nothing more than perpetuating the same stupidity and extending our already overwhelming missteps. They are the very problem through which we wander. Wander, yes, in hopes of locating something which brings a temporary view outside the sphere we are. Yet there is no outside. The sphere is all of us. We built it and live within it. We destroy everything and then look around wondering why. Idiots. We are supposed to be the shepherds... the progressive... the stewards... the intelligent... those with dominion. Well, we have fucked everything up and now scramble to repair and improve. That will never happen. we are far too stupid, selfish, blind. We will continue on this downward slide into the blackness (and I for one cannot wait until we destroy ourselves). Goodness gone. Insight nonexistent. Stewardship fucked. Go ahead and point the fucking finger at others. You are them anyway, fucking moronic despondent shitheels.

[07/24/2015 03:12 pdt]

Admin's work on the Clodmaster has reached yet another milestone. The massive PC board design which will control all of the functions and sensors is now complete. The next step is having said board(s) manufactured and the long road of assembly will commence. This is huge, and represents an end to nearly eight years of intense work. Concurrently, the last two machined parts to complete the drive are in the works. Once admin decides which will come first -- metal or electronics -- we will further the Clod section and publish. We congratulate him for the effort and look forward to the day when this magnificent vehicle is in motion.

DP is an uphill battle and one which may take the rest of the calendar year to publish. The site is already expansive, with many galleries and ties to Coma. We work fervently to that end.

Reiko's deviant and twisted bitching continues weekly and that section is the wish of both her and admin. She does have a method for describing things in excruciating detail which has the power to astound and disgust at the same time. Of course, we appreciate her... always.

One functional note: admin's words have been brought up a notch to a lighter gray in order to ease readability.


1236, the Dream and the Hatred

Believe it or not, removing our heads from the nether regions of the female form is actually possible. Yes, we spend much time in consideration of such areas and the meanings they may hold for us, but the simple fact remains we are able to function upon other levels and focus upon differing items. For example, the Clodmaster has seen progress despite our feathering and wavering behavior. The electronics have progressed, the board is finalized, and the drawings for the last two machined parts for the clutch are in the works. Soon we will be assembling.

Also, website number six is being built.

See? We can perform other tasks sometimes. Heh.

True, the dimensions and related imagery can rule as nothing else on earth. There can be no doubt of this.

Unfortunately, 1236 is beginning to get in the way of productive thought. 1236 is a number we consider every day of the week. We cannot escape the thoughts and memories related to that location and at times they bring us to our knees with sorrow. That number was hot, yet comfortable; high, yet not too much; isolated, yet not too far. We sat there every other Friday and spun our web of pointed words and very clearly directed patterns of disdain. Over and over the feelings flowed through our keyboard and across the Internet like flame from a plasma torch. We pushed through the din with spelled-out daggers and attacked from every conceivable angle. We tore holes in others with our diminished patience. We fired arrows into the calm and destroyed. We constantly and consistently ripped society and its standards.

And we enjoyed.

And we still do.

And we will continue due to the deserving shit fucks which inhabit.

All of that facilitated by the hellish feelings from within 1236. There are positives, mind you, but none related to our backward and moronic society. The positives are related to beauty alone. The image below serves to push the words into a place where words cannot exist. Thus, 1236, fuckheads.


The radii of all time

1236 helped us realize and define the patterns of life in this world, and the resulting hells which to this day ruin in their unrelenting and filthy ways. That was the location of many a realization with regard to society. They are still within and constantly at our heels.

Fortunately, the number also relates to the current dimensional work as that was the location of our first descriptive essay about a woman. Once she was spotted, the words began to flow through our heads like birds flying in panic. The words slowly made their way into the processor and eventually WritePoint. That was the infantile beginning of much of this site's content.

Now... oh god are we in. The numbers have taken us out of ourselves. To sit here and consider that beginning and first attempt at a description is mind boggling. 1236 and that essay? A fluke. We shall never do that again. The interesting aspect is just how quickly the words became the need (remember the Salt?) and the need became our lives. We have been removed from the norms and placed into a pool swimming with visions of the Vision. The Beauty. Her. Them. The. Fucking. Desires. All we are in these late days... wallowing and waiting for the next possibility.

Speaking of possibility? Another. Yes, there has been another. She will grace the Writing section of this site soon enough, but in the meantime we can say that something similar to the Car Wash encounter took place yesterday. The picture was unbelievable and will take time to form and represent us as it should. Soon... very soon she will be here. 1236 shall shine again. Fucking shine, as it were. We have hoped for this -- another vision of sorts -- but there is obviously no way for predicting such things. A woman appears in the right place and at the right time, or she does not. This time, she was there and we were there. Oh certainly we are insane over this shit, but we know not how to operate our sordid lives in any other way. We must search no matter the circumstances. We must try. An essay every several years is just fine because the boost it will force is wonderful. And this time the interval is mere months. The Darkest of Beauty was earlier this year. Unreal. That writing is fantastic, and exceeds even those which arose from 1236.


Equations of desire

So... where do we go? What do we do? Continue writing ourselves into the fucking soil? Perhaps. The need has become so great that we can no longer consider abstinence as an option. The pull is far too strong and we cannot deny. We must wait. Just wait and write and write and wait. For crying out loud, we have little else. The dreams simply must come to fruition. Our need is far too great to push aside. It defines us, completely. All else is filler.

Of course, we must plod with the daily routines until such time as the opportunity to further our studies is realized. The end result -- understanding -- is not something of which we can be certain, and the focus of our needs may only push us outward and into a place near to solitary confinement. The idea of ending up like that cannot be denied.

The goddamned opportunity of a lifetime is uncertain to the point of driving us far beyond the fucking bottle... it may push us into a hole defined by therapy (as before) and confinement. We are already descending into that pit. We created it, so why not just let go and fall into the sewage with the rest? Why the fuck not? We shall end up there anyway. Fuck it all, and fuck you... those whom have assisted in this decay. Queue the funeral doom.

Today has been one of those forsaken and downtrodden periods in which we realize our value within a group. We are broken and the glue has expired. Soon we will expire, too. Fuck it. Why not? Are we to rise at any time? Are we to understand? Are we to be where we (barely) wish? Are we to just sit here and die with the need still within us like a fucking parasite? Probably. The time for hope and forward thinking is very stale.

The visions have taken us over completely, as previously stated in spades. The issues of dealing with visions, as well. Day after dying day we attempt to find distraction and comfort. The latter is there from time to time, however it is not real. What is real has become all of us... Her... the Beauty... the fucking Dream. The decision has been made that if the opportunity is not realized, we are finished and this space is all that will remain. Sad? Yes, but necessary. We cannot rise. The idea has become everything. The staff will roll into the future and likely not miss us and our pointed words. Oh well. Such is the world we have created for ourselves, and such are the sad facts of which we are victims.

The Beauty has become everything.

Our routines reflect all of this. Habit, repeatability, concentricity. Those words are every moment. And the new home (of the past three years) has turned into the latest cocoon. The apartment represented a level of comfort unparalleled, but we are so well suited to the new home that the comfort is different yet enough. Time spent in development is abundant and peaceful. Thus, the Beauty and the Dream are constantly at the forefront of our quiet lives. An upswing? Perhaps, but of a sort we have yet to understand... just as the Dream. Oh it is there... somewhere... but we are not within. We are most decidedly without. Fuck. Shit. Crap. Damn.


Unending need

Over and over the hatred happens... we are disregarded. The thoughts flow like a two-bit whore yet there is little or no response. We do not understand. Make us understand why the continual slight must take place. We are at a loss. One occurrence is understandable and may simply be an accident. Years of this? Something else. And the issue is not only from the past years, but still happens today. When we speak, no one listens. When we respond to a question or some other inquiry, no one awaits a response. We are trod upon over and over by those who speak of caring and kindness. We sit aside and await some semblance of courtesy but to no avail. We just sit. The courtesy is nonexistent. Soon we will be nonexistent.

Again and again we are spoken toward and shut off like a machine. We are dispensed, pushed aside and left alone. We are sent into the corner with nary a thought near humanity. We are left to feel unimportant and as if we do not matter.

Well, the switch has flipped.

Our writings now and in the past are to be the most pleasant available and possible, and the pleasant is over. Unfortunately, the disrespect and disdain are now at the forefront and cannot be reversed. The others are now the enemy. The capital is now the negative -- not the mellow negative of the development environment, but the actual. There is to be no end to this, and there is to be no end to the downfall of what we have become due to the others.

Here is the result: We no longer wish to speak with others. If and when we do, we do not want anyone hearing what we may be saying, and we do not want others listening to what we are being told. Crush your cars, burn your homes, slice your throats, stay out of the way of productive society, and simply die quietly and alone. We will not miss you. No one will. If they claim to, they are lying. And the lies are guaranteed. Consider the fucking source, idiots.


She is right fucking there in the forefront of my mind constantly. I find that throughout my day if I simply sit and relax I am drawn quickly into dreams of being her. I cannot escape the feeling at times. Cannot. I am consumed with her all day and all night. I need to keep my mind occupied or the time will disappear as suddenly as my own waning ambition, like so many days and weeks and months and years I have lost to my thoughts of inadequacies, limitations, regrets, and surmounting fears. All consuming, she is. My daydreaming mind is losing its already failing grasp and fundamental connection with everyday life. I have not needed a fucking drink this bad in a long, long time. Damned long. But I can have none.

She is in there so deeply that the thought of removing her image and soul from my consciousness is distant to the point of incomprehension. I want so deeply to be her that I am closing in on some way of making myself immune to everything outside that lovely dream. I want to wear her clothes, walk in her shoes, see the world through her eyes, and experience a life worth experiencing.

I am wishing every waking goddamned moment.

My desire to be her is overwhelming and becoming more and more realistic. I have had need to leave her presence in my mind many times this week, but now more than ever. Just standing as her in the room makes me lightheaded. This is not an emotional desire but one of lust. The feeling is incredible and it is succeeding in making me miserable. Moving away from her image is no longer enough. I am fucking glad I am fairly busy while here at work, because the more she is in my thoughts the worse off I am. My condition is also such that I am absolutely drowning within daydreams of plunging my face into you-know-who's little ass and feeling its warmth. I almost cannot stand it anymore. She is incredibly fresh, bright, and alluring. I sleep against her and she trusts me to no end, but the need is killing me. Killing me! I want her like never before. Fuck! That soft skin...

Ju Da Ha 5

Shoulders and big eyes

In other matters, my Shadow is there at my back like a rabid animal bent on my destruction. The recent realization that I must reenter therapy has helped to keep my head up over the last few days, but last evening I just dropped. How am I to know that this round will be any different? What will motivate me to open my self-destructive and secluded mind to another? Face to face communication is not my forte, so this will take time. I just hope I can stick with it long enough to reap the benefits. We shall see when the fork of possibility once again plunges into my path. We shall just fucking see.

Ju Da Ha 6

Taller than average?

Further, the aforementioned Mojo/Esquire ad is also cemented into my brain and will not leave. The sweetest and most drippingly alluring confection is attached to that ad and may actually be a more driving desire than my own blood. Mercy, but these thoughts will send me to the devil. I see it coming. I see it as clearly as the next five minutes on this blog. It is coming at me with alarming purpose and frightening determination. The fucking sex of society has embedded its swirling cocktail of a dagger into my head. My head is awash with that sex. Their intent has succeeded with me.

Congratulations, society, you have killed my common sense. Fuckers. Just bring her on and I will devour that velvety vixen like so much sweet, sweet chocolate.

I need a fucking drink! Save me!

Ju Da Ha 7


I want her to be my whole life. After all of this time since the big drop I experienced five years ago, she has been supportive, loving, and completely understanding. I love her beyond words, and I can say in all honesty that I am alive right now because of her. She is the most important person in my life.

On the downside of my feelings, I am attracted to her sexually more than ever. My desire is consuming me and complicating her efforts to help keep me afloat during these difficult times. I find myself wanting to touch her when we are together and in the midst of an emotional discussion. To me, moving into that territory seems a natural extension of our closeness. I feel so strongly about physical contact between us that sleeping next to her is becoming an exercise in restraint. As much as she allows me to hold her at night, the idea of anything beyond that is very alien to her (as well as most everyone with normal societal boundaries and standards). That is understandable as our relationship is not progressive at all beyond the sleeping arrangements. Just this morning she told me that sleeping up against me has become very comfortable for her and she looks forward to being close to me every night. Apparently, we are experiencing the same type of therapeutic resolution to our respective days. I feel the same as her about our sleeping arrangements. A loving embrace full of warmth and security is what we have created.

My feelings toward a sexual relationship have grown exponentially over the last several weeks and have followed in line with my recent deepened depression. She suspects my desire to be with her physically will experience a decline if my life's outlook improves. That makes sense, but I honestly am enjoying this recent desire and would like it to remain.

Aside from this subject, my weekend has been up and down. Plenty of gin and bourbon have helped cloud my head even more than usual, and the feelings related to my future are still very mixed. School, work, some other type of work, and my quality of life have swirled through my head over and over. Last night I began to have another sort of episode with regard to my breathing and I do remember my mindset when that took place. I was mixing thoughts of my past with worry over my future, as usual. This is never a good thing. Toss in a dash of booze and my eyes well up as the realization of my self worth invades. That is precisely the combination that sends me spiraling, and lately seems to have the ability to send me to the floor with difficulty breathing.

In short, I have made zero progress in trying to improve my self-esteem issues and have not even begun to address the destructive feelings which accompany such. My limitation is me. The honest truth is I do not care to improve my situation most of the time. I just do not. I am willing to sit and wait for my demise. Those times when I do actually care to improve are few and very weak in comparison. Finding ammunition to damn myself is so easy.

So I am here in tears again. Tears aplenty. She is sweet to mop them up, but in the end I look at her eyes and want something more than understanding and conversation.

I want all of her all over all of me.

[10/05/2015 16:47 pdt]

Happy Monday.

But not for all. Admin has lost it yet again and is stomping around the office in headphones and pajamas muttering descriptive terms and threatening the world due to what you may read below. We sympathize, and short of having been there for this event we will stay out of her way. While composing an essay to describe a woman we have learned to remain clear of him. Yikes.

On the Clodmaster front, the PC boards have been ordered and should arrive in a week's time. We will photograph and continue that blog when available. This is a huge step eight years in the making and may require somewhat of a celebration. Too bad admin is now mentally crippled by yet another female. Two occasions of this in a mere six month period and she is now impossible with which to communicate. Over the next several months we will attempt to pull him out of space and time to return to the work at hand.

Another section of the galleries will soon be up and available... wristwatches. The collection admin has held, as well as those he holds now will be displayed for historic reasons. The photographs will not be up to par with past work, but the identification and views should help to illustrate a compelling story.

Backend work continues and the coding for Dimensional Passion is underway. We are in the process of securing necessary web space for the new venture. Much of what has been written here on this index will migrate (copy) along with a multitude of instructional and supplementary information pertaining to the business. RSE will expand into this as well. In addition, the idea of spinning off the Clodmaster writeup has been tossed into the last staff meeting and we will address that when the time comes. There is certainly enough information and technical data to support such a change. To be continued.

"There is an exit.

A bit of a preamble before the essay. The past few days we spent time in the mountains and a short visit to the forest, and of course the typical drop took place almost immediately afterward... and continues this morning. For fuck's sake why do we enter into this goddamned void every fucking time? Is the pull too great for us to escape without escape? Jesus.

The forest always brings an expansive sense of wonder and possibility but returning to this shithole of a society slams us back into the space we seemingly cannot leave. We are cemented, and seeing the trees and taking in the cool, dry air proves just how detached we have become from that which matters most. This period of the calendar year represents the wondrous seasonal beginning of us feeling both relief and comfort (as much as that is possible within this coffin of an area). For the next few months we can expect a steady drop in temperature and humidity which is paramount to our survival. We also love the shorter days. These changes in the weather keep the drop to a minimum, of course, but the feeling remains nonetheless. We know not what to do nor which direction to turn."


Damage at the Express Checkout

"Approaching the checkout lane... passing Starbucks... leaving the frozen food aisle... a vision unparalleled. Jesus Christ... the sight. Standing there as tall as can be and perched upon five-inch spikes, she could not have displaced more than twenty inches of diameter nor one-hundred-ten pounds of mass. Fucking hell. Tall as hell. Slender... the thinnest arms coupled with a stance of nearly six feet and a pair of eyes like giant Tootsie rolls. Holy shit this woman was fluid art of the highest form. Extremely well-defined yet thin arms, nearly nonexistent wrists supporting hands like a giant fictional spider's legs, and just enough disparity between thighs, waist, and hips to create a remarkable and beautiful female shape the likes of which we have never seen. Fucking hell anyway. Why did we need to glimpse this? After suffering a near heart-attack, we were able to regain composure and watch her walk toward the exit for a second or two... just enough to add epoxy to the already unreal thoughts in our heads. Fuck. Absolutely unearthly to the last fucking thought.

Rip our eyes out and burn them to black. We need them no longer.

Checkout 1

A vertical dream

From top to bottom... hair to shoes... vertical prowess like none other. She simply stood there awaiting service from the cashier and with a slight expression on her beautiful face. Dark skin, black hair, dark eyes. silk tank over a silk camisole. All black. 'Skinny' medium-blue jeans -- low rise -- and black leather shoes with open toes and criss-crossed straps. Side seams on her jeans aligned perfectly with the outermost radii of her long legs, and enough of a diameter difference from knee to hip to appear as a runway model and then some. The modern runway dictates extreme thinness and she was larger by a margin which pushed her into the stratosphere of shape.


Her height was extraordinary to the point of placing us off balance (and more than just mentally). Arms which were thin yet with muscle definition both above and below the elbows. Her sharp shoulders were absolutely amazing to see, thanks to the silk tank and the fact that her long black hair was behind her back. The flat space leading from the top of her gorgeous shoulders up to her neck was amazing due to displaying almost no distortion or bone protrusion. This area also forced her neck to 'float' above and appear as a statue all its own. Long, lean, defined, and slender was her neck. A wonderland of striking dimensions. The tendons along each side flexed and relaxed in simple motions and lent to the smoothness of her skin. Above this was a face carved from something otherworldly. Huge, beautiful eyes sat above high cheekbones and full lips, and the softness was displayed in dramatic contrast to her facial musculature. She appeared to be of hybrid nationality -- not fully east Asian but combined with God-knows-what-else. Her nose appeared as Korean, slender, fairly lengthy and very symmetrical. Korean and Japanese women with narrow faces exhibit fantastic noses on occasion and hers was along these lines -- just enough there to complement her face yet not too long so as to overpower her other fine facial features. Jesus.

Checkout 2

The ratio of God

Her waist sat high and in wondrous contrast to the extremely narrow upper torso and hips. The upper thighs were tapered beautifully down to her knees and fit the jeans with just enough tension to allow full flexing of her muscles. There was a thigh gap from knees to you-know-where which gracefully widened and provided a perfectly matched comparison to the outside of her long legs. The Iliac crests were just visible enough on either side to form a phantom Venus and the midriff vision of a lifetime. She was absolutely unreal from every angle and with every motion. Unreal to the last segment of her beautiful skin. The shoe height provided movement both front and back and side to side and the combination sent our eyes and other senses beyond words. We do our damnedest to paint an appropriate image but honestly words fail miserably. Her motions were graceful, slight, slow, and stunning in nature. The side to side movement of her hips as opposed to her knees displayed very uncommon posture. Each lengthy step provided our eyes with a sea of matching dots and dashes which, when combined, created an incredible flowing gait and left a wake of passion filling the room. We gazed upon all of her, and even the slightest of change was exhibited as none other... all of which still burns within us. Flame and pain, blackened and decayed tissue that previously was our mind's eye. She took all of it and all of us into a place beyond description. Two and one half minutes later, we died.

 Checkout 4


She was one of the most important and compelling examples of that which we seek every moment. Her height displayed features which cannot exist otherwise, and the combination of all of them served to push her into the nether regions of our minds. Those regions are part of the reason we sit and type and think and drink.



Now of course, we need to think about this a while. Or perhaps longer. The idea of seeing such form has been something right at the edge of our consciousness for years, and when it does happen the damage begins. During the previous sighting we did lose it for a bit, and since that was mere months ago the difficulty now feels ten-fold. Only twelve hours ago was this woman within view, and still we are unable to properly operate as a person. Why the fuck is this so important? Did someone (or something) secretly implant devices into our brains in order to push us off the deep end? Is that silly? True? Whatever the fuck, we are here and the damage and difficulty in daily life has become more than we had imagined possible. Of course, this type of vision is out there and we do realize such wonder will take place from time to time, but the stark truth is that we do not expect it nor wish it. And now... fallout."


Had I remained in one of the five fucking colleges when the chance was there I would not be in this pot of simmering shit. Fucking hell, every time I see my words from the past sessions on MySpace I just drop. How the fuck can I avoid this? How? Do you have an idea beyond the typical platitude-laden sewage which I have heard for years? Will someone just tell me to fuck off and die (and mean it this time)? My sister will not, bless her lovely ass. She knows I'll throw everything to the ground and jump her skinniness before she can complete a thought. Wisdom from MS, circa 2008:

Me: "Ramie, you look delicious."
Her: "You're drunk anyway."
Me: "No I am not. Your perception is skewed from a lack of sex."
Her: "Please don't be vulgar."
Me: "I'll show you vulgar... How about a little kiss?"
Her: "Jesus, Reiko. Must you go down that road right now?"
Me: "Woohoo! Did someone say 'go down'? I fucking love it so! I'll have you over the couch soon enough."
Her: "Don't be an incestuous slut. Please."
Me: "I'm sorry, but you are just tasty."

She may be my blood, but I would still fuck her eight ways from Sunday. Got a problem with that? Fuck off. I feel what I feel and I made no apologies back then. I make none now. Bad mood? Yes. Do I care? Fuck no. As I said before... not a nice girl. Fucking live with it, bitches.

In other news...

I don't know how to function half the time while near a woman who is attractive (read: fucking delicious). That type of girl will drive me up the wall with lust. Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking rubber crutch!! I want all of them in my secret underground lair. Yes!!

Don't worry -- I'm not a psycho. Well, yes I am, but not the type to actually go through with collecting a variety of girls to experiment upon. I simply do not have the funds for such a wondrous project.

Asian 1

I used to look like her ^

After such a wonderfully positive weekend I am in the fucking toilet again. Big surprise? Not really. I just need to talk to someone and I cannot at this point. The fact that I have made friends with some individuals on the internet and fucked it all up is not such a surprise either. As often as I may rail on about how disassociated and disconnected a person can be from their online presence, I certainly have created one very close to my actual self. This was probably not a good idea. I am not the most stable example of a person. After yesterday's visit to the big auto show and attendance at dinner afterward, I am in a fucking hole yet again. I saw nice cars, beautiful men and women, and lovely examples of creativity and innovation. Mostly the spokesmodels, however, remained in my head afterward and even now. This is prototypical Reiko behavior. I am unable to unglue myself from the vision of a beautiful person, but to see a shining example of a fine looking male before even entering the fucking show is a first. Immediately after I spied a six-foot female gliding down the street looking soft, lanky, and very model-like. Of course, that set the stage for my being aroused by every goddamned tall woman all fucking day. I even caught sight of a bikini-top clad young Asian girl on her way to a display in the drift room and nearly lost my breath. She was absolutely gorgeous and shapely beyond belief.

Asian 2


In other words, very troublesome to my thought processes similar to the damned Mojo girl whom resides in my head at any given time. Fuck, what a work of art. Anyway, I am distracted through the rest of the day and into dinner. Even the alluring Hispanic large-breasted beauty that served us in the bar could not get all of the tall models out of my head. Dinner was the point at which I realized my strong attraction to one of my friends there. He is very beautiful - eyes to hands to everything. I was aroused on and off throughout dinner (more than three and a half hours' worth, to be certain). I am simply all over the fucking map with this one. One moment I am lusting over a tall, blonde female model that is unbelievably well sculpted, and the next I am sitting across the table from a male that is forcing me to imagine things I probably should not since his wife is next to him looking beautiful herself.

All fucked up once again.

No shit, Reiko, just no shit.

Asian 3

Now THAT is some fucking hair

This past weekend has helped me to realize just how much impact the fall of 2003 has had on me. That time period was so damaging. I had no idea those feelings would hang on this long. While it is true that they come and go, for the most part they are just below the surface at any given time. When I sense a return to those types of mindsets I must prepare myself for a terrible storm. Memories of the pain I had caused back then are still clear. I am holding mental images of situations as they played out during that uncomfortable and very down time period. Some are foggy (probably because much of my memory is still reeling from the copious amounts of vodka within which I bathed) and others frighteningly sharp. Cutting words and painful conversations dominate that landscape at times. These days the memories seem to hold tougher lessons than first realized. All of this time has passed, yet my mind instantly exits the present calm and veers quickly into a wallowing sadness when certain situations arise in my head. I cannot easily remove most thoughts when that takes place. If I am alone, I can reach the danger level in seconds. Beating myself up (like at this moment) is something difficult with which to deal and others have attempted to alleviate this, but I must say that the worst is remembering the pain that I have caused others. One in particular.

I fail to understand how a life-changing period can be put to the past permanently. I mean, the truth is that the memory is important. That is the device I am to employ in order to learn from the past, right? If so, why do I feel exactly the same? Should not the pain diminish over the years? I really do not know, for my memory and detailed diary of the behavior that almost drove me to the knife is with me every day and waiting to yell at full volume of my mistakes and their consequences. Learn.. yes. Forget... fuck no. Just as I have tattooed the earlier defining moments of my life onto my body, so I may need to do the same with the latter section. Another few square inches of skin, and another memory injected into my blood. Forgetting is not necessarily allowed. So, this weekend I was among very good friends and as such I had to hide the memories and pain. Sitting with young people and watching their wide-eyed and hopeful outlook unfold along with plans, excitement over the simplest of adventures, and happiness with which they greeted every morning, I am forced to look at my experiences and the toll they have taken on me. True, these young ones are half my age at best, but the fact is I was not like that during my formative years. I was not the same. I was, in fact, on a bullet train to the now. A high-speed ride passing both what I could have done and could have been, but never was. I deservedly rode the train secure in the knowledge that this is my destiny. I rode and rode with purpose, and the train has carried me to the now. The fucking now in which I am hiding yet again. Hiding from people, feelings, projects, and the future path. Hiding from the future? Yes, the fucking future. Why? Because I know it holds little more than my grave. It will be a hole for a hole. God damn this feeling. God damn it yet again. Just... why.

A left hook to myself this weekend, and soon back to work. Wow.

[11/15/2015 05:23 pdt]

This week the 2015 archive has been updated in order to ease navigation. That section has grown dramatically since the outset of the year. The in-page navigation now has links for titled entries (essays). In addition to the 'top' links after each section there are two methods for directing browsers to each segment -- months and titles. Hopefully this change will speed users' time on the page. In a few months when we waddle into 2016, the trend will continue. Due to older entries not displaying titles, the indexing within older sections of the archive will remain as it is. Also, the new Master footer is here to stay and may expand into dramatic symbolism all over this markup. We like it, and we love the respect it conveys.

Since the loss of her the mood in the office has been black. Readers should expect the blackness to continue into the future of the site. All other expansion plans and additions have been placed on hold, and sections which previously remained unfinished have been removed. We respect admin's needs for a certain look during this period. The singular section which will progress is the Clodmaster. Admin uses that project for personal well being so the pages will grow as necessary.

The Google numbers are settling comfortably in the basement and this reflects the lack of new content as well as a distinct drop in hits from the Facebook promotions. We will sit and await any change from on high.


The Loss of Her

"Here we sit among the shit of society. Here we fucking sit. We have no choice any longer. We have been relegated to this by Her. Yes, the Her to whom we have referred during most of this year.

She is gone, taken by her own hand and separated from our soul by a distance immeasurable. She did this of her own accord and feelings and we are left alone in the sewer to ponder, stress, worry, and cry. God damn her, literally. God damn her for doing this. We no longer have any semblance of control. Weeks ago, we had a smidgen of pull toward and with her. Now we have fucking nothing. The fucking exit is illuminated yet again and this time it is as a neon sign in a vast darkness. The darkness we created. The darkness within which we are slowly decaying.

The tragic removal of such a beautiful soul from this planet has put us out of balance, and that means more than ever. This is one less reason to be here at all.

We will attempt to describe the feelings. We have nothing else in these dark days.


The curves of life

One word which has become more than life is associated with Her -- understanding.

The understanding She showed us was unreal to the limit. No one else had ever attempted to consider our position in life. She did, and the resulting feelings warmed our heart and placed us above ourselves. And the compassion came selflessly and naturally to Her. We welcomed all of it and all of Her.

Unfortunately, She was with us only a very short period of time. This is not to say that Her impact is any less important -- quite the reverse. She has had an impact as none other. The Beauty was endless, the understanding was striking, and Her ability to cool us from the fire remains as the largest aspect of our narrow saving throw versus society. She held us up, She held us in check, and She held us. Her outer beauty -- vast and unreal as it was -- paled in comparison to Her endless compassion for our burning need and miserable plight. She understood us and that statement cannot be written effectively enough to convey our respect and appreciation. There are simply no terms available which will do Her justice. None. Jesus fucking Christ this situation is the last we could have imagined and the resulting feelings are desperate, damaging, reckless and full of hatred for the cause. Anger is everything; sadness on its heels.

Despite the overwhelming feelings of doubt and pain, we have gone on this far with some sort of drive. Yes, the possibility exists that our reasoning is only to continue the written and descriptive appreciation for Her. That is something with which we have wrestled since Her departure and represents a promise we made to Her some time ago -- the onward journey into and through the dimensions and images of the female form. She pushed us over and over to explore and write. She pushed us in that direction constantly, and Her pushing is as an order from a power we cannot deny. We have too much respect for Her desires as She conveyed them into our soul.

We shall push, always. And said push will be our eventual undoing.


Upper thigh radii unlike any other

God damn this world for taking Her away from us. There will be none other in our future and such a fact is nearly crippling. The unique combination of Her complete and selfless understanding of us and willingness to allow our exploration (albeit unrealized) served to raise Her to a level the likes of which we had previously felt did not exist in this shit world.

Our life has become more difficult than the period before Her departure. While She lived, there remained the wondrous hope of the passionate research which is a need beyond all others. That possibility had become a large portion of our reason for living. Other needs melted away over the years and when She appeared in front of us we knew She represented everything... all of it. Upon sight, we felt something as well as She. There was a mutual attraction which is natural, yet Her eyes displayed more. Of course there was no putting reason to such a thing at first glance, however the undeniable fact is that the glimmer was there nonetheless. We sought conversation, and very quickly that dialogue led to an amazing realization -- we found it all within one kind and caring soul. Surprised? Oh fuck yes. Unbelievable surprise, to be sure.

Shortly thereafter we made the decision to ask about the passion and as unreal as it seemed She agreed to discuss.


Dramatically thin but still so curvy

Months later we finally were able to meet in the early afternoon at a local steakhouse. We sat in the bar and carried conversation for several hours, all the while attempting to ascertain just exactly what Her motivation may have been. We soon realized Her soul not only held all of the emotional and compassionate support toward our needs, but She was also the most striking example of Beauty we had seen in front of us. Huge, gorgeous, feeling eyes that stared and told us more with one slight glance than an hours-long conversation with any other were almost too much to take in. Those big eyes became a world unto themselves. We traveled into them that wondrous day with the speed of a light ray and remained there for most of this year. Once inside, the feelings only grew over time (nearly out of our failing control). Her eyes had the singular ability to calm and caress our soul like a goddess previously unimagined. We lay inside Her windows with the comfort of a womb. She gazed and we gazed back. When those eyebrows curved downward we knew She was to become every answer to our decade-plus of questions.

And She did... after all of the close discussions, emails, and bars, She stated in no uncertain terms that She wished to be our subject. Ours. Her desire was to fulfill our dreams and in doing so we would have been providing Her with a fulfillment of sorts. She never explained this to us clearly, however there was no need. Anything we could have done for Her huge heart.



The look of Her... She was slender, and with all of the features which we sought for years. The essay does not do Her justice in the slightest and we must remember and augment that work. Her willingness to be our subject of anything and everything is a major factor in our ongoing feelings of loss and devastation and none of this will leave us soon, if at all. We shall never gaze upon her like again in this sordid life. She singularly possessed everything -- taper, diameter, height, disparity, tone, curve -- and all worked together to an unbelievable degree. Thin, yet with the radii which remain in our heads like dimensions of life itself. To look at Her was to look toward the pinnacle of human art, as has been stated in spades within other essays. Every angle of vision and every differing moment brought Her form into focus in a new way. There was to be no end to the Beauty She carried inside and out. And there still is none.

Coupled with Her huge heart and humble demeanor She became more than that for which we searched exhaustively. She became everything. Subsequently, we fell far and fast. Yes, we loved Her as nothing else on this planet, but in a way that defies explanation or exposition. We try, we fail. The words will continue to fail but we are beyond compulsion. We are sentenced and driven toward Her legacy. And this prison is absolute. Every single fucking day She is in our heart and mind.

The pain is flaming acid still at work, slowly destroying us.


She was even thinner

One distant sunny Saturday we ventured to the train with Her. Arriving early was bliss because we were allowed the time to quietly converse. The station was deserted as it usually is during the weekend, and the peaceful nature of the platform combined with cold, glaring rails brought us to a place we seldom were able to realize. We sat with Her, gazed at Her, and spoke of subjects important to both. She sat in the shade and listened in earnest. She fucking listened to every flowing thought as if She was born to do such. Like a loving therapist She stared at our eyes as each word came out. Her demeanor was that of a person deeply caring, and someone considering everything we said as if it was of paramount importance to Her. We were absolutely floored by the kind, caring, and thoughtful warmth being exuded from this person. She heard all of what we said and calmly discussed. Her position on the bench was that of impeccable posture and combined with the manner of Her huge eyes while listening we could not help but feel that the connection between us was something not to be taken lightly.

Soon there came a point at which She dropped Her head briefly, took our hands, and then looked up with welled eyes and stated: 'No one else understands me like you do.'

Good fucking gawd that was too much. And such a statement was spoken by Her on more than one occasion throughout the following months.

On that same beautiful day at the station we continued in such a vein -- back and forth quiet and emotional conversation -- until the train arrived nearly an hour later. We boarded and rode south several stops -- hand in warm hand and eyes gazing -- until arriving and departing the coach toward the restaurant of Her choosing. There the talk went on and the soulful manner of our interaction became all that existed. We then proceeded to drink to excess and effectively ruin the afternoon and evening. We gallivanted through downtown and spent a bit of time in each of several bars which led to our stumbling and drunken posture. This was not the first occasion for such behavior between us nor the last. Days later we discussed (via email) the danger of us being in close proximity to each other and the decision was made to limit our outings to more local areas and much less time. Around others either we or She could be just fine for an entire night, but combined... things became nearly dire. We strolled with an uncaring manner and spoke our minds.

[She felt as we do regarding individual roles within society, the nature of a 'herd mentality', and the extreme isolation within our vast culture. In fact, we agreed upon so many differing and fluid subjects within society that at times we had to step back and consider if the pairing was real.]

Many evenings had been spent full of alcohol and on the edge of very reckless and damaging decisions which likely would have led to disastrous results for our lives. All too often this was the resulting behavior due to us feeling the pressures of difficult daily lives and discovering just the right outlet and in this way we matched Her to a tee. The combination was unreal, amazing, loving... yet ill-advised. Together we became a syndrome the likes of which no one wished to be near. We had evolved into a loving, drunken, and very dangerous cyclone of haphazard and inappropriate actions. And one glaring thought haunts us through every single fucking waking moment: Had She not died, we would have committed suicide by now. Frightening, yet understandable. Had that act been performed together, well... fuck it. Our mind's eye is already there.



We were far too much alike, and that is a grand understatement. She represented every single aspect of what we have considered to be female for so long that living day to day without knowing She is out there has become nothing short of inner death. The short trips we took together, the drive to a destination with the feeling that we would soon be in Her eyes, and the knowledge that Her soul was elsewhere most of the time yet fused to ours have become memories which burn inside from moment to moment. Rarely are we in a situation or position in which She is not in there... somewhere. And as rare as that feeling has become, it eliminates all concerns and discomfort at the speed of thought.

This loss is crippling and all-encompassing. We cannot escape the feelings of sadness and emptiness. During most days, all else matters not. We simply dream and regret and wallow. We fall. We fall endlessly, and said fall continues at this moment.

There will never be another. Fucking never. She was THE one. Oh, of course there are many other works of art out there to gaze upon, but what goes on inside will remain a mystery. She added to us and we added to Her. That is such an unusual situation that the entire thought is difficult to process. As a matter of fact, we have seldom been able to consider Her enormous impact on ourselves in clear terms. The feeling of being close was warm, inviting, comforting, and peaceful. Just to gaze brought us above the shit of each day's trials. Her eyes brought us a solace which is otherwise nonexistent in this world. She provided such in abundance... even while in the midst of issues.

Just as others may occasionally say: each person is unique. We are forced to agree, and She was an example of that statement. In more than ten years of very pointed searching, She was one. Just one out of the billions. And the one that found us -- waiting, needing, yearning -- and She filled those desires earnestly and honestly. As unlikely as this sounds, She quickly felt for us very nearly what we felt for Her.

Of all the worthless wastes of space in this piece of shit society, She was the one beautiful person which fulfilled us... completely.

And that person is fucking gone. Let the hatred amplify and continue to our fucking end."

To 2016