The Beginning
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The Raven

The Ratio of God and the Coffee Line
The Cut Line and the Realization
Julianne and the Distance
The End of All Things and Julianne... Again
The Barback and the Fishbait
The Train of Life
The Passion and the Impossibility
The Fn=Fn-1+Fn-2 Girl and the Face
Julianne and the Bearing Surface
The Elixir and the Void
The Danger and the Security
The Fork and the Equation
The Safe and the Crests

[18:44 pst 02/06/2017 CE]

Welcome to another year's beginning at wonderful downtown Coma. Big news: we are still in operation. Twenty seventeen and the site is still live. Wow. Well, we still own the space.

The move to mobile is progressing, and it is a big step. Admin will be the first. The change will enable everyone to work outside the office -- from anywhere, really -- and communication is a non-issue.

For the new year there is a minor change of the date format heading each entry and nothing else. We are fairly slow at the moment as things move around within the backend of the site structure. The current mood within the office is representative of the flow of thought as well as the uncertain nature of our future.


The Ratio of God and the Coffee Line

"She sat there on the stool, facing away from us, and the manner in which her jeans, hips and waist were displayed sent us into a tailspin. She wore somewhat low-rise jeans, acid washed, and the waist seemed to be nonexistent. There was no waistband or belt loops, meaning the top edge of the jeans was smooth and thin. This provided an incredibly smooth transition between her very narrow waist and the beautiful curves which led to her thighs. The appearance of such radii without belt loops or compound material was fantastic. She had upper thigh compression due to being in a seated position with her back slightly arched, and this provided a stark contrast to her exposed midsection. The overall picture was that of an exaggerated hourglass. She was an incredible picture of the most fascinating ratio. The compound nature of her upper torso, shoulder width, and miniature waist appeared as the French curve of drafting class from so many years ago. Gorgeous, to put it mildly.

Every now and again she would unquiet her frame as perched in the center of the room and move toward the bar, and during those short periods our mind went haywire. Her height accented all of the radii below and was accentuated by a slender neck and framed by the flowing mane of a model. She carried the ratio of God -- a relationship of numbers we do not know but have sought out for years. Just as in the long past, she appeared on a pedestal upon which we would again soon ram our miserable head. There is no other way to live.

Her curves were impossible to avoid yet we did our best not to fall while in the room that night. We must always maintain some semblance of composure around others -- certainly we must maintain while near the example.

Sharpest of radii

The curves she displayed due to her position were the stuff of dreams -- our dreams, and the resulting imaginative mental illustration which rears its ugly head every single fucking time. The study of images can only go so far, and one day soon the need for more -- the need to connect with private lives -- will become too much to bear. We are close now, and the hip-to-waist ratio in question was and is the driving force behind everything. The development environment is no longer enough. And as much as the editor has become our savior and friend there is no way of comparing such to life. We still sit here for days on end, writing, pondering, whatever... not enough.

The Raven was there in front of us. Now she is gone, and there is no one else.

Of course we do realize that She was part of the catalyst for this current situation. She provided us with personal insight and assistance we never expected. The emotional aspects of that relationship were as tender as they could be savage. Whilst between those two states, well, we held each other up (such as it was). Due to her physical appearance and willingness to allow any type of exploration, we became slightly out of balance with regard to others. Her huge heart did not help, either. She let us in, showed understanding for our distorted obsession, and maintained a consistently supportive stance regardless of what others might have thought. Now, we go through the motions of life and some manner of living, and when those occasional sightings pop up, we become crippled for a time. Once in a great while, though, the feeling does not leave quickly and we are left here in front of the infernal machinery to attempt a catharsis of sorts. This is difficult to put it mildly.

The beautiful examples will never end, the need will never leave us, and the editor and staff will sit here awaiting our commands. And the essays will never become more pleasant. Of course, we do explore other matters from time to time, however that is only filler for the grand adventure of attempting to describe what we see and have seen. There is just no easy path.

Hip to Waist
Very sharp

As others moved around the room, we remained in our position and attempted to gather as much mathematical information as possible (knowing the experience would lead to these words), although she sat there oblivious. The numbers began to inject themselves into our head and the resulting feelings forced the drop. The only upside to the entire situation and evening is the fact that she will never know of the incredibly displayed proportions she provided.

Intertwined radii

As she stood awaiting an order of coffee, the goddess appeared in discomfort somehow, and tentative near others. No one in front or behind seemed to notice the unquestionably rare form among so many common people. The woman remained still, and even from a distance we could see that she was unreal head to heels. Blonde wavy locks surrounded her beautiful face and provided a silky beginning to what was below. She was extremely slender, yet with the cut lines all over. Knees slightly apart, upper thighs showing Her dimensions, and a nonexistent midsection, above which rested a pair of breasts which separated her from any other such thinness. The sight of her was absolutely staggering to say the least, and we almost stumbled in passing.

Her breasts were vastly out of proportion to the remainder of her body, and they stood out beautifully from her waist and stomach. They completely took over her midsection by creating shade below. Her tank top allowed bra straps to be seen upon her shoulders, and the type of bra appeared to be unlined and seamlessly displayed fullness which is very uncommon pushed outside such a slender woman. They appeared very heavy (and likely uncomfortable on her upper back), very round and large enough to push both toward her front as well as to each side. From the rear, this image is unbelievable and remains one of the most desired pictures of all -- the upper torso tapering down to a tiny waist yet holding the roundness out past each side. Her upper body was unique, defined by a distinct lack of fat, and pushed the boundaries of all we have studied throughout the past ten years. Naturally, the sight of her nearly destroyed us. We needed to know, still need to know, and that lack of information has become crippling at times. Still, we gazed at her form while we could. Those enormous breasts set her outside the norm by such a margin...

...and the drop began. The woman in question had no idea of the frequent fallout due to Her loss last year, and in no way could she. The Raven also displayed a large chest which was disproportionate to her slender body and though the similarity ended there, stark memories took us over quickly and to this moment they remain. For months now we have railed on about sighting the cut lines from time to time and within this sordid society, but now the feelings are beginning to change. The obsession has become much more dire for our survival. The moments and sightings have become a catalyst of sorts, and one which we cannot avoid. We are sent in an unmanageable direction and end up forced into a choice -- one which questions living. We have been in said position since the cut lines in the coffee line. Things are more than bad. Now, and on the eve of venturing into the forest for some much-needed escape and relaxation, the possibility of more lines and radii in the cold means we must remain stable. Historically, this has not been the case and the traumatic nature of being among such dimensionality and beauty has sent us reeling in dangerous directions.

The woman in the coffee line was yet another example of how the numbers (which we do not know, still) can be pushed in a specific way, yet still she appears extremely attractive to the eye. The distorted nature of her measurements has become the basis for study like nothing else on earth, and yet we sit here and analyze until losing our minds. Fuck.

Five feet seven inches of vertical space taken up by nothing less than a goddess defined by numbers, the likes of which we can only imagine. Again, fuck.

Top View
A tad out of proportion

Throughout all of time society has placed emphasis upon anything exaggerated, and the female chest is toward the top of a long list. Unusual? No. Simply put, the breasts are a symbol of the female form placed out there for all to see. And see, we do. Had some point in history not put a sudden stop to women baring their chest in public (which is fine for males, and fuck our perceptions), we are certain the sexuality of breasts would not be the issue it is today. Spoken to the point, these two varying parts of the female form do not represent the woman carrying them, nor do they define any other aspect of a human being. They are there for a reason. Despite this, and due to our backward and conceited society, they remain as one of the most discussed and impossible-to-ignore aspects of human sexuality. They can be unbelievably gorgeous in their form and position, and as such have become part of the struggle, difficulty, and ongoing obsession brought on by Her.

Though it was in passing, we could see that she was quiet and kept to herself. As related to our previous thoughts, we remained at a distance and discreet. Causing her discomfort was undesirable and likely a situation she had been put into due to her form. From our standpoint, the feeling of being under scrutiny may have been alien, however she may have experienced a past filled with the worst type of attention. Yes, we study, gaze, and attempt to describe attractiveness in great detail, but neither that fact nor our sordid desire will ever be license for intruding into another life. As such, we do our best to remain at a distance and quiet. Gazing at such a work of art is compelling beyond belief.

Her wonderful roundness

Spoken clearly and to the point, ours is a savage environment. We sit and ponder the things within this life, and despite the open range of words at times, the end result fails. She stood there, we walked by, and now the fallout commences. Said difficulty continues and will continue until the end of us (however not soon enough). We have stated these words in the past and at length, but no matter, of course, because there is no end to anything. What we see is a slow decay and decline into a pit from which there is no upward angle. The continuation of feeling and falling is becoming too much for us to bear. We see no outlet, nor do we see any rise. There is only decay... the decay of everything moral and ethical. Despite the unending beauty which occasionally moves within our view, we cannot see a positive end nor any discerning from the downward thrust into fire."

[06:57 pst 02/19/2017 CE]

The site will continue its dark theme, however some small changes will become apparent over the next few entries. We wish to maintain readability over other features due to the site's primary function of information transmittal. Also the galleries have been removed. There has been very little interest in areas of the site beyond the main index and archives, and simplification is something admin has requested. We have also added a top menu item for the autosound articles and removed the previous link. The menu remains otherwise unchanged. Other areas may disappear as a result of the site development throughout the past two years. The direction has become quite pointed, and the nature of the writing is leaving other sections without readership.

The end result of all of these changes will likely leave the site with only two areas -- the Clodmaster Project and the main index/archive. Reference articles may stay in the background for the time being. Storage space will never be an issude as it was in the past, and this means whatever remains here will enjoy both dimension and longevity.


The Cut Line and the Realization

"She was present for the entire visit. Likely standing at least five foot eleven, she represented every single aspect which we have sought throughout these many sordid and disconcerting years. Everything from her long, tapered nose to her slim yet extremely lengthy legs to her gunboat-sized and thin feet. All of it for fuck's sake... standing not ten feet from us for more than two hours. Goddamn.

That was the most difficult and uncomfortable time in recent memory. Even the hours spent in the company of the Raven had an incredible upside due to Her kind and considerate nature. The tall one? None of that existed due to the fact that we did not know her at all. She simply entered with others to stay and watch the sporting event just like all the rest. And stay she did -- the entire time lingering nearby looking as out of place as the space shuttle resting under the sea. Yes, she stood out like no one else. She was an enigma in the room. Her height forced her to look downward toward others (even many of the males) and as she did her neck became visible through long, dark hair. The most incredible neck we have seen in years. It went on forever, towering above her unending height. Again, goddamn. Seeing her move about as the afternoon went on was difficult. Her very long legs displayed in varying positions forced us to realize the rarity of such slender and fluid form, and the time allowed us to compare to other past visions in places which did not permit such protracted study. Time and time again she wandered the room socializing with others, and all the while we glanced and became floored by the mechanics of her dimensions and the relationship between her legs and incredible torso.

Tall and slender features

As always, we did our damndest to remain away and discreet in our efforts to see her. Of course, we will not disturb another human being for the advancement of our deviant desires. At some point she removed her sweatshirt revealing a very narrow waist as opposed to her hips. She did not carry herself as if others would worship, but simply enjoyed the day like any other average patron. The game went on, and we obsessed, dreamed, needed. The situation was all bad, and despite others near us enjoying our company, what was going on inside became trying and inexplicable. And no one knew. The more time spent thinking of her and gazing, the worse off we became. The goddess strolled about and interacted with parts of the room and we stood there in awe and pain. She was one of the most beautifully sculpted women we had come across and yet again we had been left with no knowledge, numbers, reference... not a fucking thing. As usual. So here we are. Another god-knows-how-long of a period spent in front of the infernal goddamned machine attempting to describe both the look and the feelings. Impossible for fuck's sake.

The fascinating part of this most current of sightings is that something happened which never took place before. We surprised ourselves inside and covertly took a digital image of her from the back as she faced the big screen. Dim, haunting, unclear, yet it is there. We cannot display the image here for obvious reasons, but suffice to say the idea of capturing an image of a woman without her knowledge is something which we did not believe ourselves capable. It is a violation of sorts, although in public view that point may be debated. The simple fact is that we have now realized yet another level to this most dangerous of obsessions -- over the edge of reason, if you will. We do not know exactly how to feel about the idea, and we are now worried that the desires and simple curiosity, mathematic interest, and need of the numbers have all now pushed us outside remaining in the shadows and into a life. Frightening. [The fact that we are sitting in front of this editor listening to a song about suicidal ideation doesn't help, either.]

Hip-to-waist which we rarely see

Was the image worth the realization? Who the fuck knows. The deed is done, however, and now we either rationalize or just live with it. JUst like the collection os images which have been splayed across these active server pages throughout the past two years, it will remain locked up tight and never see the light of the internet. That type of control is far more important that many will admit -- toss a photo to a server and it can go around the world in eighty minutes. And it will.

The furtherance of her image from our minds and onto the screen is disturbing, but at least we have a frame of reference like no other. Since it is already there, we can study. The tough part is dimensioning the image without a starting point (normally this would be the distance between her eyes, center-to-center). Although, we may never do such a thing. Most likely the image will just sit there, just as we did that fateful day in her presence. One day soon it will be deleted along with all the rest. We will just sit here and drown in thought like any other day. Just drown it all away and let nothing and no one inside. We cannot deal with the obsession most days, and after this type of event the drop is further... that little flowing vortex which appears while the sink is draining. Right down the fucking sewer we go.

Tapering up to oblivion

As we spent time viewing her from varying positions, all of the details became clear: legs, hips, waist, shoulders, long fingers, and the arm structure with which we have become all too familiar -- thin and slightly defined. Her hair was in a ponytail and to her mid back, revealing the neck upon which was perched her gorgeous facial features and large eyes. Dark eyes. She held everything in the type of order which we seem to notice in a split second. Absolutely gorgeous and with the height and lanky features of a runway model. There was no end to the incredible numbers all over. As usual, we will never know any of them. Fuck.

This type of art is as nothing else on earth. And this situation continues to repeat. And we have no outlet. And the need is beginning to become crippling at times. And we can no longer run to the Raven for understanding. And that is because She is gone. And the fucking dreams are now during waking hours as well as sleep. And the burning feeling inside is getting worse when we see this art. And goddamn it all anyway.

Tapered loveliness everywhere

So what do we do now? Finish the fucking business cards and hope for the best? That is a tad unrealistic, to put it mildly. The digital image we snuck is a step, but in what direction? We have no idea. That entire event could have simply made everything worse. We will not be reduced to covertly shooting images of people because there is a name for that (and it is not exactly pleasant).

For the time being we shall study what we can and perhaps craft a more involved writing of this beautiful woman and publish it here. Naturally this is not the healthiest decision considering our frail state, however it may assist in understanding the genesis and reasoning behind everything. We simply need to know the how and why of this long term interest as it has become so important.

The image of this latest goddess has been reworked as much as software will allow, and will represent a step which takes us in some unknown direction, and may push us into an uncomfortable and very isolated place. We just do not know what to think -- aside from the simple truth that over the past couple of years the obsession has expanded enough to force risk. This is not good in any way. Dangerous thought is one thing, while dangerous behavior is entirely different."

[06:22 pst 02/26/2017 CE]

This week a few more sections of the site have been either relocated or removed. We are attempting to streamline the local storage and backup organization in order to ease our work around the development environment. This will also lighten the load when we transfer everything to mobile. Throughout the past fifteen years we have amassed an overwhelming amount of images, reference documents, and images which seem to pile up in the local folders. Most of the older material from before the .NET era has been archived and just sits there on auxiliary drives and in the cloud, but what remains is a multitude of tidbits (which add up to revenue and time lost) and such a multitude requires much effort to organize. We have much to do.

On another front, admin's desire to pare the site down to just two sections has met with disapproval from many readers, and the consequence of his desires and actions is an increased bounce rate and a truncated viewing public. We understand and support his needs, but the toll on the site's future may be dramatic. Hopefully the new direction of both this space and DP will bear fruit in the near future.

As always, we are here for the long haul and intend to keep the faith endlessly. His vision is unlike any other.

For whatever reason (and god knows from what direction), admin has grabbed hold of an unbelievably long xml file which he is attempting to pare down into the neighborhood of readability. Hours upon hours of agonizing over the editor and formatting tools, and due to the drive he is exhibiting we suspect it may be a cherished remnant of the Raven. Ugh. But, also... yikes.

On the operational side, we have removed the legacy image toward the footer. The time for displaying the older work has come to an end. And the date format change which was implemented a short time ago may change yet again. From the absolute CE displayed above, we will likely begin placing the entry dates in Epoch.


Julianne and the Distance

"Each day brings a new depth and a different scene laid out in front of us. We attempt time and time again to rise above the caress of alcohol and the distorted sense of awareness which has taken over our collective psyche, but the effort brings only heartache, depair, and further dissolving of capacities. The relaxation after day to day business has become a fraction of the escape it once was. This editor has become the only saving throw versus both the past and the present -- difficulties which in the past were easily overcome, and now the slightest step aside from our needs is traumatic. Each waking moment is filled with thoughts, nightmares, dreams, and recollections of who we were and who we have become, and the contrast is more stark than the desert sun upon snow. The falling, the rope, the air, and the blood have become defining segments of the disjointed reality within which we spin. We are so far distanced from the light and hopeful feelings of the past that the shimmering and glaring positive direction we once enjoyed is so far gone that the black has become comfortable.

Hmm. The black.

Perhaps we should refer to such as the familiar. After these past years of falling down the same hill, the blackness is now the norm. We sit here day after miserable day and attempt to carve the feelings from our heart and display them for all to see and the typical result is nothingness. Just fucking nothing.

The lady lies; the mirror does not

So here we sit for the thousandth time in a futile attempt to describe both what we see and what we feel. Why? We do not know. Do we continue? Do we manufacture the cards and push forth? Or do we sit and wallow as always? Again, we simply do not know. We have direction but no direction. Does that make sense? Perhaps a more fitting description would be the direction we feel versus the direction we need. There is no answer.

The only certainty now is the distance we have traveled to work and slave over this obsession throughout the past many years. We are very far from there, and yet still a world away from any realization. Yes, everything crashed and exploded during the summer of fifteen, but since then we should have been able to do something. Any fucking thing. We are just too far away. The distance has become too great to travel. Many hours have been spent here at this infernal editor in hopes of finding some inspiration which will grab us and launch this project (read: insanity) up and out of the doldrums and into a space we can comfortably inhabit and work through. We are glued to this chair staring at Julianne's hair on the other monitor as we try to find the words. Her sharp shoulders look back at us asking the simple task of description. Just as all of the other examples which have strolled by, she awaits justification and recognition. There is none of that right now. The toughness of seeing her there on the screen, idly standing and awaiting the shutter release, is becoming what shapes our thoughts, feelings, and the words which fly off our fingers. She is the reason for ambition within this damaged and downward world. There is nothing else which has the capability to propel us up and out of the dirt. On top of that, there are very disturbing historical parallels which are working inside us as she relates to so many uncomfortable and toilsome situations. Those times were the cause of pain which still remains, and the knowledge of the past pushes us to keep everything close. We are beginning to do that now. The organizational difficulties which the staff mentioned above are in the works and are directly coupled to our increasing need to hide all of this from the outside -- from
them. This is not a healthy solution by any means, however one which has become necessary for our survival. Ugh to the nth.

Julianne has stood there looking back at us across the chasm and we feel the need so greatly that there is no return trip. None. Fuck.

Stretching our limits

This bullshit has gone on for so long that we are now losing the compulsion and heading in the direction of trouble unlike we have ever felt. Images are one thing, but seeing this art in person has become crippling -- and we mean to say paralyzing. The feeling is to run straight to this editor and type, along with alcohol consumption -- just drowning into the obsession and dreaming of an end which is extremely unlikely. The Raven brought us so much hope for the future that the current situation without Her is the opposite. We are still dropping from that terrible event not long ago, and the loss is still fresh. Her demeanor toward us defined what could and should be, but now we have nothing save for a mass of images and disjointed visions of need.

Julianne's unique look is rivaled only by that of the Raven. We cannot put this woman on the page with any effectiveness other than throwing appropriate images of her between the text. Her beauty, as interrupted by our sordid and desperate words. She hangs there mid-page and looks out with young eyes and sees a world we can no longer fit within. We are slowly being reduced to frailty and despondency while she is on the rise. Of course, she is not at fault for a damned thing. We do not know her, nor her us. All we have is data. Even as we type these words, they are heading out into a world which is much more likely to be familiar with her, yet still over here in the gutter we reside with the look of a dead creature sliding down a muddy slope and into the detritus -- the remains of what could have been. Simply put, we are feeling the distance as it becomes too great to bear.

There may be an end for us, but there is no end to her beauty

The pain which stabs at us at every sight is nearly unbearable, and to look upon Julianne brings a similar knife. [Yes, nearly every image displayed here is monochrome for good reason -- they need to be viewed on an even playing field. Put another way, all of these beautiful creatures of the world must be equal from at least one standpoint. Julianne's gorgeous poses need not show full color in order to be as incredible as they are. She is the reason, not the variety or range of hues.] There is no escaping the nature of these feelings, no matter whether we sit in front of the editor with her staring back nor when a similar woman appears nearby. The blade is in us, constantly -- it has become a part of everyday life. This is the fault of no one but ourselves.

Movement in any direction has become truncated and so arduous that we function almost entirely for the need and hope for a change. We have little hope of anything, in fact, because of a lack of decent reason. Others may comment that lookng outward and away from things which bring so much heartache are the best paths. They automatically push for such a thing due to years of programming toward the positive. For us, there are only the briefest of seconds when the light becomes viewable. Quickly, it is gone, and replaced by the black of our unending an unrelenting desire.

Last year's adventure to the north was a long break from editing, and a period which turned from relaxation to pain. We missed the editor, and of course we took mental and physical notes along the way for future material, but even at the very last moment we dropped -- despite ten days of enjoyment. Directly in front of us while exiting the ship there was a tipsy and silly woman who decided to drink the morning of disembarkation and her resulting behavior was quite funny. She walked along the path to the exit, mimosa in hand, and looked unreal. Tall, well-dressed, and displaying the cut lines with which we are intimately familiar. As we followed along with the others leaving the vessel, she stood out like a god among insects. All at once we fell down that well-known hill and the cuts began. Along the ride home we felt as if we had been sucking on ether for weeks. The need did not stop, as we were powerless against it. We remain as such. Always.

Julianne and her incredible hair

Expect a future of this, and much more than one might believe possible. Unfortunately, there does not seem to be any other direction -- no turns, no switches, nor any other type of change. Unless we step into some type of fucking miracle in the coming months, this drop shall continue unimpeded. We are accustomed enough to weather the fucking shit for the time being. Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Fuck it all anyway. If we were truly born to feel this way, the continuation of everything as it now stands will be the goddamned status quo. Forever? What is that?

No matter... one day soon we shall be in the ground with all of our misplaced needs, deviant desires, and degraded hope. The decay has begun and we slide downward into the pit in earnest."

[18:44 pst 03/04/2017 CE, 1488637860 E]

Current audio: Alcest 'Oiseaux de Proie'

This week we have streamlined and clouded the information which has become historic and at the top of the priority triangle. Having updated all of our content and placed everything where it needs to be, the next steps are to mobilize the operating processes. We go.

As predicted, a few of the sections have been removed due to lack of viewership and falling numbers from the nether regions of the world. These sections will not return, and have been archived deeply. The site direction will continue without further issue. Admin has (firmly) expressed his desire for a new frontend and logo, and the fabrication of a colophon in order to cover past and future print work. We are nowhere near brick and mortar, however steps must be taken for protection of intellectual property in the future. The site name and URL will not change until the realization of 2020, so for the short term we will simply alter the header and footer accordingly.


The End of All Things and Julianne... Again

"Or... the beginning?

This entry may be bad.

Sitting and staring at her endless beauty is not enough. We need to somehow be inside the machine and gaze without limits. We need it like nothing else. And such a fact does not matter. Inside? Yes, we live inside these feelings and damaging desires, and there is no way out. Just as the song by the legendary Genesis, we are in too deep. We cannot move and Julianne is a part of the reasoning. Fuck.

To reference other media is futile, however an apt description is the nightmare Kevin Bacon's character had when he learned of his wife's exit from birth control: He was sent, screaming and straight-jacketed along rails into an explosion. We are there, too. We are destroyed. Julianne is not at fault, of course (just as in the last fucked up entry), but the fault is our own for allowing this to take place over many years. There is no placing blame anywhere else. It is us. Period. And we knew this would happen over time yet we dove in anyway. And here we are, swirling among defeatist thought and horrendous emotion, backward hopes, and a desperate desire to understand. There is fucking nothing.

Her images are going to remain within this writing due to the fact that she represents every single facet of the fall.

And these entries are beginning to smear into each other.

And fuck it all.

The last several weeks spent both in the office and in San Francisco have shown us that the effort is for naught -- in whatever direction we face. Time in the office is quiet, dim, solitary, and nearly as therapeutic as it was years ago. Not bad. But inside... the storm presses us into a never-ending molding process which rarely eases off. The sides are closing upon our shoulders and mechanical stress is manifesting itself in everything we attempt. While in the City we constantly see images of hypersexualized objects along with gliding examples of mathematiacal attractiveness everywhere. The simple fact is the City holds a vastly disproportionate amount of physically desirable females, and each block traversed brings a new vision (or more) which stabs at us from every concievable angle. We cannot look away, yet gazing and taking in as much as possible during those quick moments has become compelling beyond belief. There are just too many opportunities to see these beautiful women and the need to place numerical references all over them is very soon going to either kill us or send us into hiding. We know not which may be worse, but hiding means still dreaming, and that is bad.

Do the fucking math.

Beauty from any angle

Upon countless occasions have we stated that there is no positive direction. This continues with nary a thought for our survival. Well, here we are (finally) with some semblance of an end. The horizon is displayed before us just as the colorful representation upon the instrument panel of the aircraft we adore. Knowing this end, we can now juggle priorities and gather the things we need to help carry us to the soil. We can drink the errors away and drown knowing that we are pointed toward our destined cocoon. We can prepare for the issues which doubtless will attempt to uproot this direction and derail our path. Once mitigated, the open sea will embrace us and wash the need from our deviant and exhausted minds. Thank Christ the situation is sans irritation and lacking external power -- and we do mean 'lacking'. There is nothing and no one which can cross our desires. Considering the many years of dull, plodding, pedantic, and unrealized literary prowess, the simple fact is that we arrived at the end of something much more than we could have imagined. We are here, however we could have been in a place void of the technology which brought every micron of the obsession, desire, and the fucking need which is killing our being. Fucking killing it every waking moment.

Throughout the past several years we have attempted to understand and expand upon the mechanics and mathematical relationship between beauty and the limits of physical attractiveness. Unfortunately, this endeavor has bore no fruit nor any actual empirical research which is required in order to fulfill even the simplest of scientific theories. Time and time again we have sacrificed an inordinate amount of personal time in hopes of crafting and recording some sort of beginning format with which to expand.

Yep, nothing.

Surprised? Neither are we. The late days of our existence have shown us that the effort is fatally close to naught. One unfortunate fact related to this type of subject matter is that once we are displaying information or soliciting others we become labeled as some sort of deviant (and of course we are deviant to the core, however we need not skywrite the fucking thing). Yes, we can deal with what others may think they see. Most people can rise above such issues, yet somehow we still shy away from placing too much out there. This site? Who the fuck cares -- it is just another random stopover on the way to someone's destination on the internet. Click. Hmm. Wrong page. Click. Gone. Remember the 'Twelve-second rule' from the early part of this century? Yeah, well it is now closer to five. Shit anyway.

Numbers all over her

And yet the goddamned compulsion continues just like the Train (upcoming essay). We are powerless to change direction, slow, or stop. The images and Julianne's incredible form keep us from the bottom, yet push us somehow toward it. Think of a pendulum which has no positive side -- it sways to and fro and each change in direction sends the weight over to a different type of doom. The middle is peaceful yet there is nothing to halt the swing. We are the weight in question and each cycle causes more heartache and damage. The pain is endless and we wallow within. Due to the obsession of knowing, seeing, and exploring, we are still aware of the slim possibility, and that means remaining upright and open (to a degree, anyway). There can be no denying possibility, yet it is so far out in the stratosphere that we cannot even touch it.

Some of our previous entries mentioned the need to know 'why'. Well, we still do not know, nor have we any idea of where to begin that type of exploration. There was The Girl at the Car Wash way back in the Dublin days, and that may have been a part of the beginning. She appeared, we felt compelled, and the essay took form over the trailing months. Once polished to our twisted satisfaction, we published that writing and began to attempt an understanding of what made her so attractive. The only thoughts became about numbers (as a society we are obsessed with dimensioning everything interesting and searching for superlatives), and perhaps that brought on our dire need to know her measurements -- and we mean EVERYTHING -- from her long, perfectly tapered fingers all the way to the insanity of the compound radii which lead from her inner thighs up and into her labia. Oh yes, up there. Insane, sensitive, and one of the areas of the female form which is largely out of reach... especially for this type of study. Attempting to explain this interest to another human being is not a pleasant thought nor simple. Our mechanical interest is for the most part without emotion, although we will not deny the fact that performing and recording the study of a woman would be difficult without thinking of the sexual aspects of attractiveness and the instinctive direction those aspects naturally push the mind and body. Everything adds up to odds which have become astronomical. Ugh. Fuck. Whatever.

The girl at the car wash brought on a few things we had not previously considered, like her height as it related to other parts of her body. Tall women can tend to display unusually long fingers, an extended neckline, and (perhaps) a slender nose. One of the first thoughts which popped into our disturbed minds was as such: 'How long ARE her fingers?'. From there, the numbers which could be learned from measuring her entire body began to form some sort of need within. We wanted to know the numbers, and still do. So how does one approach a woman and politely ask her to stand in lingerie or a bikini and be subject to this type of study? Heh... the idea seems nearly impossible without her having the right type of mindset and personality, not to mention an understanding of, and appreciation for, human nature. Well, that was the Raven to a tee, but let us pass that beautiful soul and continue on.

As of this writing, the idea of seeking and contacting a subject is as alien as the fog and gases that make up Venus. The pain and compulsion which occurs each and every time we see an example of this type of mathematical beauty has become a catalyst of sorts -- a lever against which we have no strength. They are out there, and we are frozen in a manner so as to render us mentally and physically unable to function on even the most basic of levels. The resulting condition is a dire and fragile state. We have become less than both what we were and what we could have achieved.

The innermost of dimensional passion

As always, we are at an impasse. There is only thought and wording, and the need to continue in some goddamned direction other than to the reverse. Gazing at Julianne's beautiful eyes presses us to think of the imagery and slim possibility of referencing some of them based upon eye separation. The photos are still only two-dimensional so the research is severely truncated and very limited to simple measurements, such as thigh diameter and so forth. We cannot place a hundred numbers upon these bodies -- not by a damned sight. The river is rising and we have become a slave to its depth and powerless to exit the water. Unfortunately, we cannot stop, either. Her incredible beauty will not allow us to seek another outlet nor alter the manner in which we think. Just fucking look at the image below and attempt to understand how such form can come into being, and how we can stop the need. No fucking way. God bless whatever type of power has created this woman and others similar to her. For fuck's sake... we just need it like nothing else on Earth. Look at her, and you are looking upon an example of the greatest and most compelling art in the history of everything. And we threw in a closer view of her eyes below just so we can slide down the slope a bit further.

Good fucking night.

Julianne's big, beautiful eyes... 2.55 inches apart

An absolute goddess, and still the fault is not hers

Where are we? Lost? Stuck? Who knows, but we have arrived nonetheless. Fallen, broken, yearning, and no longer knowing how to cope with all of it -- obsession, whatever the fuck.

For the time being, we shall sit here, coding and fucked up, staring and not knowing, typing and wondering. Without the Raven and lacking any other outlet, this is all we have. Of course, there is no limit to the writing and publishing, and that is one of the few parts of life which helps us to maintain a little stability. Well, we do have the alcohol, too. And Neige. Those two items, along with the endless fucking need combine into a cocoon from which there may be no escape whatsoever. Unlimited time also pushes us into the alcohol/music/goddess shithole and allows for (occasional) exploration of our feelings, which is generally quite damaging and serves to cripple us temporarily. Hopefully, this will not become permanent as we cannot deny the fraction of possibility that our endeavor will bear fruit at some point. If we continue to destroy ourselves before that nearly-impossible dream is realized, well... you know. Dirt.

As usual, we arrive at the stoplight which asks the question: 'What do we do?'. There is no answer, and attempting to let others in to assist will doubtless lead to ostracization. Yep... further outside than we are already. At least this place is familiar. From limitless options fifteen years ago to the nether regions of the late 2000s to the pit of fucking despair which is the now -- well, further comments are retreading and tired. The lack of descriptive terms comes as no surprise to us. Suffice to say, we are alone, hurt, fractured, and distressingly analytical about every second of our existence.

Unbelievable, and part of the reason we have fallen

Living in this massive fucking goddamned sewer of a society is going to force us to reduce everything we are down to our own tiny universe -- within which we will sit and slowly destroy ourselves. And we shall perform this action whilst staring at a giant image of Julianne's eyes, along with the last photograph of the Raven that we still possess. As we sit now in front of this wondrous editor, we will fucking make it happen.

Or, give up completely, realize that there is no longer a reason, and fire the bullet which can carry us the fuck out of all of it. Either is fine.

Fuck you."

[19:00 pst 03/08/2017 CE, 1489028400 E]

Current audio: Alcest 'Kodama'

The forum link has been gone for a few weeks, but now apparently the whole section is not going to see publication. Admin wishes the site pared down to nothing more than the writing. We expect to be removing the remaining Autosound and Laserdisc Legacy sections in the near future. He holds the pink slip, so we go wherever instructed. Hopefully this does not mean trimming staff.

The week has held backend work -- code streamlining, image updates, and scripting for future additions. We are still in the process of developing the business of DP but the timeline is fairly slow. That aspect of Coma may never see the light of day, but we work toward publication anyway. Much of the work involved is in the hands of the owner. Business cards, QR advertisements, and web presence will have to be first-class or the entire plan may fail and end up quite costly. The touchy nature of that expansion now dictates development.

In other areas, the Clodmaster section has been put on hold in order to focus upon the main index and archive. When work continues on the truck, we will update accordingly.

Also, the legal and site information pages have been updated with similar title bars and footers. This helps to provide a more professional look and promotes consistency across the site. An image crediting page has been published which helps to alleviate issues which may or may not arise as related to the information displayed throughout.


The Barback and the Fishbait

"Day after miserable fucking day we dream of the numbers and their function of defining the characteristics of the female form. Yesterday was one of those, and in spades. Every waking moment was spent considering such things, and then we went out to a gathering. Naturally, one of our first sights was a woman strolling about the venue -- midriff exposed, thin tank, yoga pants -- and that pushed us into an attempt to maintain composure around the others. We succeeded in placing a pleasant face on despite the difficulty in seeing yet another mathematical beauty. The people around us had no idea of what was taking place inside due to our well-rehearsed false front. Years of practice. Her fingers, arms, shoulders, and exposed neck were very well-proportioned to her small body, and we began to analyze everything along with a desire to walk straight into the fucking ocean. Again.

There is no goddamned outlet whatsoever.

We are still, at this very moment, trying to calculate precisely why seeing her (just as others) caused such a breakdown. Tremendous effort was required to keep our distance but she was working, and that means she was all over the place. No sooner did we find a bit of distraction, and she walked by again... and again and again... ponytail bouncing all the while. For Christ's sake, why? What goes on in the head to allow us such a fall? She was just a woman -- not perfect (there is no such thing, of course) -- yet very much aligned with our suffocating and endless need to know. And that situation leads to this. And upon every single occasion in which a woman arrives in our heads, we slide into the chair and proceed to throw the fucking information to the wind. And then we add images for referencing her appearance. And then we caption them appropriately. And then we archive, update, and publish. And then we rest from the issues within. And then we see another. And the cycle continues until we hit the fucking bottle. And then we drop severely. Ugh. This pattern, throughout the many years, is taking its toll on our mental capacity. In addition, the emotional issues are affecting our physical health, and the result of that bullshit is more alcohol and the beginning of us isolating within the office... very much alone. There is NO FUCKING GODDAMNED OUTLET.

Just take a gander at the image below, and her incredible radii as they lead the eye all over the fucking place. Is it the sex? Fuck no. The whole thing is because of the numbers. There is nothing aside from the main point which may have started this shit... yes, numbers.

Just fucking math.

Not sex -- mathematics, mechanics, limits

That's right kids, this thing is now physically destroying us when in the past we only dealt with some emotional workings which could be alleviated from time to time. Now? Nope. We are slowly being ground into fishbait.

And Neige is screaming into our ears but we haven't hit the bourbon yet.

She had large, dark eyes (always something which galvanizes our vision) which proceeded to weld us in position several times. Thin arms, very sharp shoulders, and a neck tapering up to her gorgeous face -- all of it was there, and as such did not allow us to look away terribly often. We could not. We were stuck there for several hours and she was everywhere due to her job, and we ended up spinning, flying, falling into the familiar pit yet again. We know it well, and here we sit at the fucking editor trying to make sense of the whole shitaree. Goddamn it anyway. Perhaps we should just sell everything which is unrelated and not supporting this clouded endeavor and remain in the office forever. Maybe a little wet bar in the corner, too. And we can print all of these images and stare as we drown into oblivion. Eventually we will fall off the chair and be done with it. That sounds acceptable, right? Fuck it all anyway. We may be sans choice now. Oh fuck, I forgot we must keep a day job in order to continue financing this piece of shit space. If we cannot write and spread our disjointed thoughts and imagery across the internet, we have nothing. Well, maybe we have nothing anyway. What is this? Are we in a place dictated by fate, or did we do this to ourselves?

Answer the fucking questions.

She was beautiful, shapely, upbeat, mobile, and young. So was her skin. It spoke to us and asked to be under the measuring tape. We answered by getting a refill. Heh. What else is there but the numbers? Well, nothing. Unfortunately, we do not know the numbers and so we shall just sit here and complain, wallow, whatever. The funny part of this site is the fact that we used to have a plan for the future -- some way to provide a tad bit of income so that the web space and domain registration could support themselves. We even went as far as attempting to build our own web servers to cut costs. Yep, that went out the window that fateful day years ago when we encountered the girl at the car wash. Is this her fault? Nope. Is the whole mental mess our fault? Probably. Can we deal with it and move along some sort of decent path? Apparently not. You are reading the evidence, and we have no reason to believe that things will change or improve in any way. This is a years-long slide down the fucking muddy slope and into a hole surrounded by the obsession and need. And we belong here due to our own lack of acceptance.

Depression incoming. Alert the fucking media.

The random image below likely originated from social media (read: scourge of society), however we could not ignore it. The woman is vastly out of proportion, however this is something which also originated at the car wash. That girl was similar -- thin with a large pair of breasts, and that pushed us to wonder about the measurements. Below, this woman is apparently quite proud of sculpting her body into the look she desired, shared the image, and the result is fascination on our end. There can be no denying it. The fact that her face is obscured adds a measure of anonymity for her, and creates mystery for viewers. The point of that image is the barback. Other than the disproportionate chest, the barback shared features with this woman. Yes, she looked similar. Oy. Numbers, tapers, radii (how many times have we typed that fucking word?), and a combination of curves which affect us badly. No shit.

An unbelievable combination of shapes

Over and over she trotted about the rooms taking care of patrons and maintaining cleanliness of the tables. Every time... we watched. No one knew because we are intelligent enough to do nearly anything without notice. That is dangerous yet necessary for our continued damage path. Or whatever it is. Or whatever we are (have become?). She looked every bit the part during each step. Her efficiency with regard to the work was exemplary. Our thoughts? Hmm... reprehensible. The only positive would seem to be her not knowing of our dimensional deviations. She is innocent, and as stated in previous entries we are not the type to intrude. A compliment or two is fine, provided such things do not lead her to suspect any fucking thing aside from conversation. We cannot push at all.

And this crap is all beginning to sound the same. Blah blah blah. Who cares?


Fish emulsion?


This is an obsession which cannot be denied, no matter the effort. We are all in, and the fucking simple fact base remains: car wash, Julianne, Diana, Mercedes (part of the very beginning), or whoever-the-fuck, they all have been let into our consciousness by no one else. Just us. We did it, and we will not deny. The saving throws are few, leaving the resulting damage, difficulty, depression, and every single other negative facet we can describe. There it is. Well, we are not really trying anyway. There is no reason to change the path because despite all of this horseshit, we are still very conventional in other aspects of life, and the catharsis of this markup has value. Our misery can be quite creative -- and why not spread the anti-joy which is often capable of lifting others. Heh. Funny. So many issues have cropped up as a result of this obsession that we have trouble juggling the down and finding the up. Why the fuck do we need the numbers so badly? What IS that? Are we THAT fucked up inside? Send us an email with the answer. Now. Ha.

Wrap her in the measuring tape and record our soul

The barback continued to float around throughout the evening performing her duties. We moved around as well. As the fear of looking like a fool among others superceded our need to gaze, we were forced to both maintain our appearance and control our reaction to her. So, we kept our distance from her and others, and this allowed for some quiet consideration of all that we were seeing. The entire affair was arduous from the outset. A few hours can cruise by like seconds, but for us in such an atmosphere, the time dragged on like the worst insurance seminar. Good god was it tough to make small talk and act as if we were enjoying the evening.

Her midriff was clearly representative of her age as it displayed no distortion throughout her otherwise voided waistline. That, combined with visible ilial crests and a well-defined upper thigh gap placed her weight as obviously low, however it did not matter because everything worked together beautifully and created the very picture of that which we seek. She was gorgeous to the toes, pleasant with which to speak, and carried herself with professionalism and impeccable posture. Quite the sight for a woman so young. And quite the sight to enter into our minds and twist the knife deeply, fucking sending us to the moon on a rocket fueled by despair and longing. Wonderful.

Thanks, doll.

She moved beautifully, causing us to eventually fly out the door and flee the location in order to gather our thoughts and begin to craft this latest of damage reports. Once alone, her image swirled within our psyche and words began to take form. And here are many of them. Despite our mentally curtailed condition, the fluidity of structure here has not suffered, even if we have. And her image stands tall to this very moment. We are straightjacketed for what seems the millionth fucking time. Nice.

The lack of numerical input will be our necessary demise

The short time which has elapsed since our evening of absorbing the loveliness of the barback has shown us that throughout these many years the rate at which a woman's form fades from memory is decreasing. And we know the reason. The sum of the brain functionality which we possess is diminishing. All of the data required to operate and perform tasks related to daily life is slowly being deleted in favor of mathematical beauty and dimensional passion. Funny? Well, it would be if there was no truth to the statement. Just as the staff noted above, the site is being reduced to our writing, and at the same time (and the same rate), our brainpower and mental capacity are reducing themselves accordingly. Soon we will sit, obsess, write, dream, fall, fail, drink, drink, and eventually just fall over. That will be the end of it (the end of all things? that was last week). Time will fucking tell.

On a partially-related note, there exists a massive website housing millions of images from millions of users, and up to this point in time we could view them but not save. Well, desire overcame software and we proceeded to create a way inside the servers and grab all the images we wished at the highest resolution. Naturally, we are referring to images of none other than Julianne herself. This is good for future entries because we do need visuals to accompany the text, and her appearance is unreal from the get go. The last two writings focused upon her as a central subject and then a tertiary, but we have little doubt that her likeness will find its way onto this sordid space again and again. So, the backup gorgeousness that we ran across (read: appropriated) will grace this fucking index."

[06:02 pst 03/11/2017 CE, 1489240920 E]

Current audio: Hans Zimmer 'Paradox'

This entry marks the revamp of all extraneous, legal, and informational pages within Coma. We have aligned everything so as to follow the central theme of the index. Things look a tad more professional now. Next the FAQ will head in the same direction, lest it disappear like so many other sections throughout the past few months.

We are now updating twice weekly on the main index, and hopefully this can continue for the remainder of this year. Admin is attempting to hollow out his head and place everything here for all to see, and such a move could eat up much space. We'll see how it goes, but one thing is certain: The servers will be there, we will be here, and the site will continue to operate until our sun goes nova.


The Train of Life

"The feelings began because once again we watched a film we should have avoided. Some of these films are very deeply emotional and remind us of things from the past that we wish not to be dredged up, but at the same time we need them dredged up. Life for us, as we cannot speak about others' lives, is like riding a train along a track which has turns but no switches. The track moves along a predetermined path where we should be going, and when a bad decision is made the train derails attempting to turn. The turn is forced and so the train leaves the track. Railroad lines do not respond well to being pushed off course. The decision is the catalyst and the resulting wreck is us.

Three such films exist, and during the correct convergence of circumstances one of these will be splayed across the large screen and command our attention no matter the day's events nor the existing frame of mind. There might actually be more than three such films, but as of this writing we have not seen them nor are we aware. Already we are in a hole and to dig deeper is not going to end well.

The past several years seem to be somewhat of a repeat of the early part of this century. Mistakes, backpedaling, more mistakes, and much difficulty and fallout. Combined with a smorgasbord of questionable decisions, this is a very dangerous state of affairs. And none of the decisions have gone by the wayside like so many therapists would prefer. They are all still there, in detail, and pulling at our ability to move further along in life. Again? Yep, the fucking train. Regardless of others' desires or recommendations, we maintain our own pace and direction. They can smooch the resulting behaviors along with some fucking ass. The train dictates all, not them. So long as there is coal in the tender and/or fuel for the diesels we go where driven. Do not give us flap about free will and an unwritten future. The result will be uncomfortable, unwelcome, and quite harsh.

That's right... we are all about the fucking 'un'. Live with it.

We have written about this at length, but significant details have been omitted in order to maintain our anonymous nature. This type of medium is global, after all, and the identitiy of ourselves as well as others involved must remain out of the limelight for the time being, lest things get out of hand. The marks have been made and are all over us, if unfinished. And there are more to come.

Despite all of the derailments, our train continues to plod along. It is clearly out of our control. Some days we lose awareness of the power of the locomotive, however during other times the machine is at the forefront and in clear command -- not us. Oh yes, we do attempt to deny the overwhelming diesel and electric might, but in the end of any given scenario we are pushed. The train is driven along its path at varying speeds depending upon our situation with regard to others. The closer we become to good souls, the slower and more stable the cars roll. When we drift, a million tons of metal drifts with us, and it is at such a point that the train can drag us.

Undeniable and unrelenting power

There is no one else on the train. We have searched and searched the three locomotives, and during those times when it is moving slowly, we have scoured as many of the carriers as possible. We must venture back to the engines before they gain enough speed to leave us behind. Without anyone to control the diesels, we are at the mercy of them. For whatever reason, or possibly solely out of fear, we continue to search for others. There is no engineer, brakeman, conductor, nor is there a switchman. The last of these would be helpful because without a switchman we have no hope of changing direction. And despite the occasional turn to the left or right, the entire affair moves along a generally straight line. It rolls and rolls. At times the train feels as if it will roll over us if we are not careful.

Perhaps it has already rolled over us and this site is the resulting damage. Who the fuck knows?

No one. And we have asked that futile question on more than a handful of occasions lately. Considering the vast number of essays written in other directions since the bleach box of all-too-fucked-up twenty fifteen, we have little doubt that any type of answer to ANY of our meandering questions has even the slightest chance of a clear answer. And again... someone... ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTIONS! Right. As if anything related to our being was so simple. Anyway... the damned train.

The locomotives and trailing stock are as gorgeous as Julianne. They are gleaming in the sunlight, proceeding to distribute their wares as needed by millions. The repetitive and musical clicking of the truck pairs upon each rail joint makes the rolling stock sound as if the world is on its way to our door with the force of a falling planet. The weight of each covered gondola presses the steel rails into submission like some otherworldly being bent upon the crushing of everything we know. The rails are mighty, yet they submit to the train's wishes with nary a possible escape. As the motion continues, we feel the weight -- the very tonnage -- upon us like the unrelenting and damaging emotions which result from each viewing of those goddamned feature films. We have nothing to grab hold of in hopes of repelling such overwhelming pressure. The train and our endless rash decisions may actually be a deathly representation of the fucking films themselves -- the sour combination of our actions and inactions, film industry desires, wide-eyed and hopeful dreams, and our unwillingness to bend from the well-financed and comfortable position on the fucking sofa. Yes, the train is also the films, but it is us, too. There can be no denying such an illuminated point. We did this to ourselves. And the only end to the depressing exploration of our multitude of mistakes is the fucking cold, damp soil.

That's right... the earth beneath the rails.

Rolling over us?

One locomotive can be six thousand horsepower. This is three. Do the math. Yep... plenty. Well, this is not the first occasion upon which we felt so much of a load bearing down on us. Every sighting of those female forms of which we have written extensively is similar. There is just no fucking end to anything. Either the visions push us down, or the train. There is no middle within which we can rest and regain any clarity. The whole thing is too much, and constantly it tries to win over our tender ability to stay above the dirt. Since the internet has a billion users visiting a billion different sites, perhaps one person will stop by this dump to see what may be happening at any given moment. Um... perhaps not. Seeing as this is our only path outside of ourselves, shit is not looking terribly positive. Ya know? This is ugly, filthy, desperate. That last term is more than appropriate, don't you think?

Ugh. Just fucking ugh.

At least we never run short on the supply of alcohol.

And the site is beginning to resemble the MySpace days. Heh. Whatever. We go where the train dictates due to a lack of choice. It keeps moving... traveling along the rails and distributing the heaviness throughout our lives just like the music which is injected into our sorry heads. Ongoing and endlessly painful travel to an area we already know awaits. That place is there, beckoning without any emotion. We know this because we are living a part of it, and the waiting is arduous. Just a spark and we are there... wherever it is that we belong. The train knows... it knows everything and has a plan for us. With all of that incredible power we have no saving throw no matter how we may feel or view such an end. And we have seen it in spades, just a short time ago. We attended the gathering, we wept for the occasion, and we ran to the alcohol like nothing before.


rolling over us
Are we on the train, or are we THE train?

That was the worst. And we have not been able to travel anywhere near that area since. We simply cannot due to the loss and the interminable feelings of distress. The weight and motion of the train directs us past memories we constantly fight to push away. Combined with all of the other lousy and cutting thoughts from the past many years, our current position in life, and the idea that we are going absolutely nowhere in this shit world, the train is not assisting us in any way. It is simply in charge of us in too many ways to state clearly. There is no mercy whatsoever. The train forces us to recall that terrible fucking wreck of a year, the issues and joys therein, and the resulting loss which caused a change in us of massive proportions. It is still going on, in fact, and each day we are reminded in some manner of the difficulties and choices, and the resulting war which arrived in our sorry heads.

On occasion we find breathing difficult, too. And the train is the reason.

And we have no goddamned idea of where we are.

The year of which the fucking train continues to dredge up is similar in structure to the year which brought us to this place. Littered with a distorted and distilled sense of awareness, the time we spent bouncing from one bad decision to another was like being a pachinko ball in a life-sized game with the devil at the controls. We just could not seem to turn into a constructive direction and move along the path. The falling continued. The alcohol flowed. The others could not understand what was happening, and during those rare times when we could open a slot in the window and speak of events, the train became determined to maintain our compass bearing and take control like nothing else in life. We just kept going, and on numerous occasions when we actually had a day which seemed decent enough to possibliy lift us from the rails, once again that fucking locomotive would overtake our sense of being and ram us through the walls of thought and into the wasteland. Again and again that machine just would not let up.

Telegraphing our destiny

One day very soon the train of life will ram us into a position which requires a decision. Do we continue throwing our thoughts, desires, and feelings up here for all time? Lacking hope? Sans resolution? Or do we finally flee the mighty diesels in favor of another path? Whichever, the end is the same... we have been here before, and we know why. As stated clearly above, we did this to ourselves out of a lack of sensible thought and reasonable decison-making, and we are beginning to believe that the writing, analysis, and fucking effort toward an understanding has been entirely misplaced. We know where we should be, we know it is far away from the others, and we know that the distance is necessary for their benefit as well as those of the future. The train needs to demand, dictate, and finally throw us under the fucking wheels in order to force us toward where our destiny speaks -- has spoken -- and into a place where any further understanding matters not. We will, at long last, be among the fruits of our painful and fucked-up decisions, actions, inactions, and resulting difficulties inherent in attempting to fit in. The world may no longer be where we belong.

The train will bring us home."

[06:59 pst 03/19/2017 CE, 1489931940 E]

Current audio: Alcest 'Kodama' (again)

Little change here from the last entry. We are still working out the idea of widening the main table, and performing further adjustments as admin requests alterations and focus within the main content. The legal pages have been aligned for consistency throughout, and the FAQ is still breathing. We do know the day is coming when all content except the index and archive disappears. To that end, we have work in progress for maintaining flow here. And we have it on good authority that the Clodmaster project will not be completed at all. This is disappointing, of course, but we do understand that long-term ambition is tough to rely upon.

Other than that, not much is happening in the office. We are fearing the end of this.


The Passion and the Impossibility

The Richard Mille RM039 Tourbillon Aviation E6-B Flyback Chronograph

"This timepiece embodies all of the passionate interests from which we have derived enjoyment throughout the past few decades. None of our pursuits have been fleeting, nor have any been remotely artsy. All are very technical and extremely detail-oriented. Our driving forces are machining technology, mechanical and electronic engineering, aeronautics and astronautics, and finally wristwatches themselves. When aeronautics is combined with watchmaking, we go off the deep end. The level of detail and complexity within the RM039, along with its instrument-panel styled layout and coloration leaves us absolutely speechless, and has leveraged this essay designed to describe the fascination and appreciation for this machine that Richard Mille has created. The wristwatch is unlike any other, and the most striking example of a pilot's timepiece we have ever seen -- and this after years of searching and scouring the planet. It is unreal. And we will point out the downside at the outset: This watch is unavailable. Period. Thirty examples of this mechanical art were manufactured, sold, and subsequently distributed to thirty very happy customers. Oh, one will pop up from time to time as collectors buy and sell their investment pieces, but the bottom line is that the purchase price for something of this magnitude is commensurate with the time, effort, brilliant engineering and design which has gone into it. Acquisition of such a masterpiece is something which will not happen to us in this lifetime or the next.

As painful as this fact feels, we needed to point to the impossibility first.

We have seen countless articles written about this fantastic machine, and a few video reviews as well. Many of them go into great detail about the case, materials used on the outside and inside, and the unbelievable manufacturing techniques and processes which became necessary for Mr. Mille's vision. Due to the vast material already available, we wished to focus entirely upon the function and look of the watch from our perspective. To begin, some background on how this love affair materialized.

We go.

The masterpiece in question

Months ago, we ran across a Pinterest board full of Richard Mille watches, and after seeing the RM11-02 in the tonneau-shaped case with its colorful dial and oversize date window, we began to look deeper. Eventually the RM39-01 popped up and we became enamored with the inclusion of an elaborate example of the E6-B slide rule. This is a watch feature we own in many examples, however this particular incarnation has scales on the rotating bezel, the fixed inner bezel, along the outside edge, and on the case top, thus expanding both the readability and usefulness of a traditionally compact calculator. The individual scales are in varying colors and the entire bezel is oversized. Mr. Mille's version of the historic E6-B is brilliantly executed. And he did not let this computational flight tool stop there. The middle section of the watch case has a small cylinder which can pop up for speeding density altitude calculations. On the RM39-01 it is between eight and nine, while on the RM039 the device is near two o'clock on the case. The entire affair of his E6-B design is the most complete and visually striking adaptation we have seen on a wristwatch.

Upon encountering an image of the RM39-01, we immediately dove into searches for more information and detail and eventually ran across its more complex brother, the RM039. At first glance the watches are similar, but after looking deeper we realized the RM039 is vastly different and far more complex. With five pushers, four crown functions, three mechanical apertures, eight hands, and three subdials, the microengineering involved in creating this unbelievable watch is staggering. It is unlike any other aviation instrument for the wrist.

Before we begin to gush at length regarding the remainder of the RM039 functionality, we will outline our impression of the RM39-01.

The dial side, below.

The beauty which led us to the passion, the RM39-01

The automatic RM39-01 displays hours, minutes and chronograph seconds at center, running seconds at three o'clock, totalized chronograph hours at six o'clock, and chronograph minutes on a unique subdial at nine. UTC time is also displayed from the center. There is a large aperture above center for the date, and a smaller aperture at four o'clock for the month. The chrono is a flyback.

The chronograph minutes subdial is fantastic in that it utilizes a disc as opposed to a pointer for indication. The rotating inner disc also has a scale, and as such can be read as a countdown while the chronograph is running. Very innovative.

Upon discovering this very colorful instrument, we immediately searched for images and information, and eventually ran across the RM 039. At first glance, the dial side has a bit less color and the back crystal displays a tourbillon bridge and the fact that the movement is hand-wound. The pushers are nearly identical (although more of them on the RM039) and the crown lock on the RM39-01 is absent on its more complex brother. We took in much detailed information and soon realized that the similarities are few. The RM39-01 houses Richard Mille's RMAC2 4Hz movement which is used in other watch models, while the RM039 caliber is unique.

Below is the back of the RM39-01. Stunning.

RM39-01 back
The rear of the RM39-01, with its automatic rotor

If ever there was such a thing, the RM39-01 is a pure aviation instrument. Every aspect of this timepiece shouts aircraft, and we fell in love with it immediately. The fact remains that this model is likely the only one of the two which could be considered attainable. At somewhere north of $100k, it is a chunk in its own right, but realistically something which could happen for a person dedicated to the purchase and passionate enough to focus upon such a goal. The watch is worth every penny, even if to display prominently and spend years just staring at this type of horological accomplishment. The fact remains that the E6-B flight computer on this watch is identical to that found on the RM039. The only difference between the two models as related to the bezel is the mechanism mentioned above. Inside, the two are vastly different and clearly define the very idea of creating something so wondrous with a price tag which remains in the stratosphere, and then another 'version' that is more affordable. We believe the prototype for the RM039 arrived first, and the RM39-01 came later. However it happened, we are pleased to see such unbelievable examples of flight-related mechanical wonders for the wrist.

On to the main point of this whole endeavor: the Richard Mille RM039 Tourbillon Aviation E6-B Flyback Chronograph -- otherwise known to us as the Passion.

Supreme aeronautical coloration

The incredibly detailed dial with a nice sapphire glare

The tourbillon bridge of the hand-wound RM039 stands out beautifully

The RM039 holds a hand-wound movement and prominently displays hours and minutes at center, along with a striped UTC hand, chronograph seconds, and chronograph minutes. Running seconds are displayed on the lovely tourbillon at six, and totalized chronograph hours are at nine. The outsized date window is above center, and between two and three is the power reserve. So far, there is much happening on this timepiece, but more is to be found. At four is an aperture, surrounded by yellow and black striping, which is the crown mode indicator. Opposite this, there is another aperture with a matching decorated outline which indicates whether or not the countdown is enabled/running. Yes, a countdown function which shares hands with the flyback chronograph, and this on a mechanical watch.

Above center, and similar to that of the RM39-01, are the exposed date windows. On this model, the apertures are framed in white -- for readability -- and the black numerals on each wheel are 'backlit' in a manner of speaking, due to the white background behind where the date digits meet in the center. Each date wheel is nearly fully exposed, furthering the complexity of the dial. To add a bit more, the date can be quickly advanced at any time thanks to a dedicated pusher (at two). The RM039 has no month indication, and we don't care. If you do not know the month at any given time, you may need a different wristwatch. Heh.

All of this indication and function is colored so as to resemble parts of an aircraft instrument panel. Many of the gauges and mechanical displays on an airplane are brightly and differently colored for instant recognition during flight. This watch is showing off black, white, yellow, green, orange, and red on the dial information alone, not to mention all of the varying colors around the bezel, pushers, and crown. Never before have we seen a timepiece more fitting for aviation, nor any which have looked more the part. It is beautiful to gaze upon, and this considering all that is going on inside.

The power reserve is a retrograde-type, and employs a small striped hand for indication. We are pretty certain that the reserve on this gorgeousness is roughly seventy hours, and the display is from sixty to zero. The power reserve is not intrusive at all, being nestled up and away from the main hands.

Dial detail
Absolute complexity and appearance

Further in
Right at home in a plane

The chronograph is also a flyback, meaning the mechanism can be immediately reset while running. This is important in aviation for quickly measuring successive points without the need to stop, reset, and start again. Chronograph seconds and minutes are indicated from the center, and the two pointers are very different for instant readability. The totalized hours are indicated by a subdial at nine. Naturally, the chrono reset and flyback share one pusher. Did we mention that the oversize pushers around the case are all labeled? And further, they are decorated beautifully with stark red against their metal construction.

One of the pushers -- at nine on the case -- turns on the countdown function (the aperture at seven will display 'on'). Another pusher -- at four -- is then used to set the number of desired minutes. A light press moves the center hand in one-minute increments, while a further press advances the hand in five-minute increments, thus speeding the process of setting the countdown duration. When the start/stop pusher (at eight) is engaged, the coundtown runs its course, eventually causing the indicator to move to 'off' when time has elapsed. Keep in mind that this function is sharing a part of the chronograph and flyback while running. The sheer amount of engineering required for this feat is staggering to consider.

Another little tidbit as related to the apertures... since this watch is completely mechanical, and due to the fact that Richard Mille's movements are largely exposed from both sides of the watch, the indicators for the countdown and crown mode can be seen through the crystal despite their position in each aperture. This is fantastic because they appear to be 'waiting' in a standby position until required. The entire affair of the function indicators as well as the date is simply incredible to look at. Insane. Add to this the fact that the two apertures flanking the tourbillon are not evenly spaced on the dial. Why does this matter? It adds yet another level of visual and mechanical complexity to an already unreal appearance and function. And then between them the tourbillon spins its magic with a bright orange pointer. There is just no end to the staggering beauty of this watch.

Deep breath. Moving on.

The four-o'clock aperture is the crown mode indicator. The massive crown on this watch has the selector built into the center and controls four modes: 'N' for neutral (basically freewheeling), 'W' for winding the movement, 'H' for setting the hour and minute hands, and 'U' for setting the center UTC hand (or second time zone, if you will). While the 39-01 has a dedicated pusher for changing the second time zone, the 039 already has five pushers, so the crown adjustment for this function seems necessary.

Three pushers
Three of the six pushers

Throughout all of our research and consideration for this masterpiece, one aspect of the design still remains a tad bit of a mystery. Like many mechanical timepieces, there are crystals on both front and rear of the case to show as much as possible, but in perusing the images over and over we find that there seems to be some secondary level of crystal or glass beneath the top. This movement is like a skeleton, in that there are moving parts visible through both sides (although we do not believe one can see all the way through like a true skeleton -- just way too much going on inside to have that much space available). Beneath the top sapphire crystal, however, we see labeling (silkscreening?) for the hour indicators, aperture borders, etc. This material is not above the dial, but seems to BE the dial -- like there is glass below the top crystal yet above any mechanical movement parts other than the hands. For example, in the image above showing the lower half of the dial, one can see cutouts in the clear material in the center of each subdial (this is very apparent when looking at the power reserve). We are fairly certain that the dial itself is glass (or sapphire... very likely), below the center hands, and we are scrutinizing this for no good reason other than to know every detail. Of course, if the watch were in our waiting hands at this very moment, it would undergo hours, days, weeks, months, and possibly years of protracted macro photography in order to magnify and appreciate the endless complexity within this highest order of aviation-born horology. The closest we can figure without in-person examination? The thickness of this watch is partly due to the inclusion of so many stacked hands on the center wheel, and Mr. Mille's exposed movements require a level of material above the mechanical area for labeling.

We may have just answered our own question. Whatever. Something is in there, and the resulting dial appearance due to this type of design is stunningly beautiful.

And now the difficulty of knowing we will never be in the same room with one of the most incredible machines we have ever seen is setting upon our heads. Ugh. We are not going to be any closer than digital images. What a damaging thought.

Anyway, let us get back to the point of this writing.

Other three pushers
Even the crown resembles an airplane's wheel

As if the complexity described thus far wasn't enough, the entire movement is protected against misuse. That is to say that the functional nature of each aspect while running -- flyback, countdown, or otherwise -- also engages mechanical limitations which will not allow pushers to be used out of order, and this extra level of design and microengineering means that the wearer need not worry about harming the extremely complex movement during daily use. Really? Yep. Just another unbelievable facet piled upon the many horological feats within this wondrous machine. Richard Mille is one of the most brilliant figures in the world of watches. There are seven-hundred and thirty-eight parts to the RM039's movement. And every single one of them has been placed inside the case with every possibility taken in to consideration, thus yielding this... this highest level of an art which never ceases to amaze.

Whatever we have strove to write and place on this entry, nothing will ever be enough. Just look at the thing... the images of all that we have attempted to describe. Nope, we cannot do it justice no matter the word choice nor count. Even the images fall short. Despite extensive searching for months, the images are too diminutive to capture all of the detail. No one seems to be capturing high resolution images and placing them for all to see. This is disappointing, to say the least. We would love to see EVERY DETAIL on this most beautiful of machines. Oh well.

Regardless, we are gazing upon the very embodiment of wrist-worn aviation instrumentation, and as we sit in this chair, nothing like this masterpiece will ever grace the horological world again. Every aspect of such a timepiece is incredible -- form, function, and the seemingly endless complexity of engineering involved in its creation. Superlatives aside, we cannot begin to conceive of this thing which Mr. Mille has designed and built. The RM039 is now the only wrist instrument which matters to us. We are finished searching.

And the impossibility rears its ugly head one more time -- nothing like this will ever be close enough to see, touch, or appreciate. Just like the many damaging essays we have thrown to the world wide web throughout these past fifteen-plus years, this is yet another facet of the difficulty inherent in having an obsession. There is no difference between this wristwatch and Julianne. Or Her. Or all of the many works of art through which we have trod in a futile attempt to understand why we must throw everything -- all of ourselves -- into one direction and then realize that we are suffering because of the effort."

[05:53 pdt 03/20/2017 CE, 1490014380 E]

Current audio: Alcest 'Souvenirs d'un autre monde'

We are considering widening the master tables from 900 pixels to 1K for reasons of image display. This is not terribly involved, however we would like to solicit feedback on the subject. Older images and archived content will not be altered, just the new additions. Everything will remain centered within the content placeholders.

In the interest of visitor attention, we are going to begin leaving two entries on the main index before they are moved to the archive. As admin is developing more than one update at a time (and often three or more simultaneously) we feel the need to leave the current content on the lead page for more than a few days. Other than that change and the upcoming possibility of altering the table, there is not much going on. Er... other than admin stumbling around the office again.


The Fn=Fn-1+Fn-2 Girl and the Face

"Out of nowhere she passed us on the street. We heard the heels clicking from somewhere behind our position, but before the opportunity arose to turn and face the sound, she walked right on by. Good god, and whatever else fucking reactive terms can be applied, she was yet another example of physical attractiveness with no fucking bounds. Short skirt, stockings, long black hair, vest and tank top, and boots. She bounced along in somewhat of a hurry and we quickly fell down that same familiar hill. And this during a fucking work day for crying out loud. Needless to say, we were worthless from that moment forward. All we could do to maintain our composure was an attempt at distraction from the thought of her incredible appearance, but the effort was (as usual) for naught. For fuck's sake, we are too far in and too far gone to give a shit about anything save for the obsession. Another day, another work of art, and another notch down that broken ladder toward the waiting floor. This is who/what we have become, and there is just no end around.

This woman was aptly formed so as to align with our distorted sense of need that even several weeks later she is still in mind, and clearly. Her gait demonstrated a willingness to deal with tall shoes in order to push her look up above that of the everyday pedestrian. And she was up there, all the way. She stood out like Orpheus in a fast food restaurant. Naturally, we noticed much more detail during the course of mere moments than others may have in an hour or more. We only saw her from the side and rear, but that was plenty enough to create images within our deviant minds -- images which cause breakdowns of the worst order. We are still there (aren't we always?). Damn it anyway.

Eleven-forty-seven in the AM and the alcohol is flowing. Wonderful.

This woman's form brought the Fibonacci sequence to mind, as it is related to the Golden Ratio. Her hip-to-waist was so well-defined that we instantly felt an unrelenting desire to wrap her with a seamstress tape. We will never know the numbers of comparison, but she was carrying less than seventy percent between her beautifully slender waist and the hips below. Due to such an exaggerated ratio combined with long legs (of course she was tall, too... why the fuck not?), her walk pushed her midsection into movement patterns the likes of which should have killed us on the spot. We could not look away due to being visually fused to her form strolling away. The sight of her movement was unreal.

We need a job at the World Seed Vault in Svalbard so we can avoid encountering anything like her again. The result could be bad. It will be bad, and we are on our merry way into the void of life -- a vault of a different flavor. The straightjacketed abyss of our desire.

The reason for the research... the golden ratio

This woman is now yet another representative form which serves to further our issues. Once seen, she cannot be forgotten in the short term, yet remains inside us like a puzzle piece. The details fade over time, but the overall symbol stays with us and assists in building whatever we are to become (already became?). In dealing with the fading image, we attempt to craft some sort of descriptive essay which can build upon our past body of work in an attempt to understand the 'why' of our abundant needs.

Wow. That was a real nice clambake of a clinical analysis. Spoken clearly and to the point? We are all fucked up over this ongoing shit. The bottom line is that she was within the scope of our obsession and the all-encompassing drive toward this whatever-the-fuck we are amidst. We are referring to a human being -- above all things that is what she is -- and she just happened to look so fucking shapely that we have a distinct lack of words. Whatever we write adds up to... not enough. An image would serve her description better, but we cannot capture such things on the street. The one image we did grab has provided us with the opportunity for endless study, but in public (as well as in our minds) that practice is just wrong. Sure, we are all fucked up to no end, but as stated in spades, we are still intelligent and understanding. And sensitive. And caring.

And broken.

Does anyone notice the repeating terms and thoughts within these fucking entries? We do. We will assume there are only so many words available but we will not resort to thesaurus-izing this content. This is who we are. Period.

As we were able to see her from the side for a brief second, we did notice that her posture was healthy, and this further benefits her gorgeous overall appearance. Such a stride demonstrates confidence in both her appearance and her demeanor toward everyday life. The entire picture of her was staggering -- from head to toe. The instinct to speak with her stems from such confidence, however it also cripples us and we end up frozen in place with no clarity of thought. The sad sum of this is that we will likely never approach anyone with anything, despite the burning need. Unfortunate? Absolutely. But what choice is there now? There is only analysis.

ANALysis. Funny.

Fucking hilarious.

One... one... two... three... five... god

We are beginning to think that the dark triad is a part of whatever space we inhabit. At least a bit of the triad. Hmm... dark. Yes, and perhaps we will understand the why and how before we explode.

Perhaps not.

She is still walking away in our heads. Still in there... walking so beautifully that we cannot avoid the image of her. Clicking heels... bouncing breasts... long, slender, swinging arms creating wisps of air which smelled of perfume... still in there. Julianne is in there, too. She will always reside within (see, we said she would return here). Unfortunately, the descriptive terms are beginning to overlap and sound redundant. Oh, well, this is all we have anyway. Who cares about the ramifications of repeating ourselves? Not many souls are reading this crap. In fact, there are probably more robots than humans scanning the content of this crazy web space. More power to them. Yay! Robots!


What is this? A joke? Or is it something which can matter? Who the fuck knows. We sure as hell don't. Maybe we just enjoy the sound of the keyboard clicking along. We will be reduced to that soon, right? Is there an out besides the fucking ground?

Just like earlier: Answer the fucking questions. There will be a test.

Maybe we should cease directing the index and head to the outer office for some code cleanup. We do not seem to be doing anyone any good from this part of the building. There are no windows and that means anyone outside on the street is safe from our subjective wording. And from our prying eyes. Good for them. We do not imagine that anyone wishes to be either described in words or have their likeness splayed out here for all (few) to see. This bullshit will roll on, and due to the fact that we own the space and tremendous bandwidth... oh, you know. We will not go into detail regarding the domain and our control because it is counterproductive and can come across as arrogant. Sorry.

Alcest plus alcohol equals Alcoholcest. Ha!

At some point, we need to coalesce this crap and move forward, but the ambition is waning. Time and time again we have spent hours thinking of where we should (be able to) go with this type of interest, but there seems nothing like it anywhere. Exhaustive searching on the subject reveals nothing more than blogs with massive amounts of images of women in varying states of undress and wording to match the very low intelligence quotient which always seems to accompany such things. We are not there... we are here. This is a different place and a vastly different intention. The exploration we need to pursue is just not mainstream. And we cannot avoid the thought that the displayed imagery here tends to be off-putting to the average reader. Sure, our scientific standpoint is secure, but the photos may be taken as another of those model-fan blogs in which a user gushes over their favorite celebrity. There is nothing wrong with being a fan of picturesque women in this day and age, but we have placed emphasis upon the mathematical nature of the female appearance and tried to apply such to research and data which can be collected and recorded for study -- in terms of learning the just how far the numbers can be exaggerated and pushed before the individual becomes either an anomaly or unattractive on some level.

What the fuck did we just say? Ugh.

The Fibonacci sequence, displayed beautifully

She just fucked us all up yet again, like the others. They are out there living life (as is expected) and we are over on this side agonizing from one second to the next. And then we sit at this fucking editor and type until the booze is flowing and the music is blaring. Wow. Um... here we are half in the fucking bag and the keys are a'flyin. Splendid!

As we sit here and attempt some semblance of clarity within the swirling mental image of that goddess, the words -- as always -- fail. We simply cannot put anything upon the screen, images or otherwise, which will do anything other than provide a distorted and half-assed job of approaching the point. And what is the fucking point? Read the rest of the entries, mmkay? Mmkay. It is all there, in spades and without end. Just as we attempt to write anything here which will have meaning or conjure emotion in the direction we hope, the past writings may assist in this shit. [The alcohol still flows like a two-bit whore on a mission.] They MAY assist. That is to say that, when taken as a whole, we might have cohesion. Might, goddamnit. With our hopes dashed into the veritable firepit, the only push is the possibility that someone, somewhere, will take a measure of thought from this and decide that what we are doing is acceptable and with good reason. We say that because we are losing faith in the reasoning and trying to stay on the productive side of such an interest.

Once again -- and for the thousandth time -- we are ALL OVER THE FUCKING MAP. Maybe if someone has some advanced application for the Cray Supercomputer they can take everything we have written, crunch it, and print out a summary which makes sense. What do you think? Do NASA and the federal government have the capability of funding our fucked up obsession? Nope.

Ahhh... NASA. That is where we were employed when this whole fucking mess began. Strange?

We didn't think so either.

Moving on? Okay.

Facial structure from the heavens (or wherever?)

There it is, above this text. We will not name her because anything other than her face is just not necessary. Any description would fail anyway. Right? Just fucking look at her. Considering all of the detailed essays and everything else we have placed upon this website, rarely is the facial structure displayed or spoken of so prominently. That is because everything will fucking fail. Do you see our meaning? The eyes, the shape of her lips, and her expression absolutely defy anything a person could write. The image was originally in full 32-bit color, however for our purposes and the need to fluidly control this webspace and the theme throughout, she must be here in monochrome. This is to say that color will make no difference in showing off her features. This fact cannot be disputed, and we do not care if Christ himself comes down fresh off the cross and argues the point. He will be incorrect. Her unique facial shape is the result of some fucking cosmic convergence of circumstances which is as indescribable as it is unlikely. That face... fucking hell, that face is the stuff of dreams. We could literally spend our remaining time on this cesspool of a planet in an attempt to understand what can make such a thing possible, but along with Julianne and the others, there is no point. We might as well grab the nearest blunt object and go to work on the cranium. Damn. Just damn.

So... why did we include this face among the images above? Why the fuck not. She struck us with the force of a locomotive and we felt compelled to place her here as an example of the vast disparity among females everywhere. Is she superior in some fashion? Of course not. She is simply another human being out there in the world which we can slap onto the server due to her unique look and expression. She has a face which aligns with the other forms of which we have written without end, and that brings us to the need for measure. Measure what? We do not know, and fuck if there is any reason at all.

But still, we gaze upon the human art which is undeniable and unrelenting, and we dream, need, obsess, and fall. This is our lot in life, and as the images of Diana and Julianne and the fucking Raven (may God rest her soul), we just fucking need it all and nothing is within reach nor is any aspect of our fucking screwed up and distorted sense of beauty available to us on any meaningful level. We are now just sucking the marrow out of the fucking keyboard and its willingness to be where we need.

Mark these fucking words: before any outlet whatsoever, this obsession will find us without direction, without reason, and, finally, without life. Yes, many an entry ends with such finality of statement, and we will admit that the redundacy may seem void of balanced thought, but we are currently in more dire of circumstances than one can possibly imagine. Only a few microns of thread are keeping us upright.

And the bearing surface is tensioning...


[18:23 pst 03/23/2017 CE, 1490318580 E]

Current audio: Agalloch 'Ashes Against the Grain'

The main table change is not going to happen. We have been wrestling with the difference between the site display within a desktop or laptop browser, and that which is displayed on a smaller device. Likely soon we will employ restrictions upon the viewable area and the manner in which text is rendered. We wish to avoid the site being seen out of sorts. This space is meant to be viewed on a much larger display than a phone. Of course we'll take the visitors as they come, but the true vision will be missed by some.

Also, all content other than the archive and main index will remain. As much as we have removed from what you see here, the lion's share must stay.

Dimensional Passion QR cards are in the works and the main splash is published as of this morning. We are pleased to see the furthering of such a dynamic endeavor.


Julianne and the Bearing Surface

"We have been pouring our very souls onto this index for more than two years since encountering Her, and as much as the space, keyboard, and office can be a release, it may not be enough. At times we sit, hammering away with music screaming, and at the end of a session in this place we are no better off. Still She comes across in every writing, Julianne stares back at us from wherever, the screens loom above, but quite often the feelings simply put us down like nothing else. There can be no denying the nature of this interest and the related processes at work. They are damaging beyond belief.

And here we go into yet another fucking freefall toward the darkest of places. This is acceptable on at least one level -- we know it. This place is on the road to everywhere we wish to be. It is familiar, if dying. The black has already taken over our FB presence, so why not the rest? Instagram? Fuck, not yet. Other than those, however, we have detailed files and images to assist our fall (remember the fall? Hmm.) 0947 was the first pour, so by noon we should be in typical form. No comment? No shit. We will be here then, too. Still typing, wallowing, hurting, and wondering when the entire fucking mess will crack open. The bearing surface (an engineering term) is still holding up, yet with every edited image, every sordid word, and each session in the office, that plane is tilting to the negative. We cannot reach out and seek the need, so we end up here. We cannot expand into the unknown because it is too risky and frightening. We cannot go back to the beginning and make alterations which may help the path because time is anything but nonlinear. The options are narrowing just like our vision.

Cracks. Voids.


Did anyone see this coming? Of course. Did we see this coming? Yep. Are we learning anything which may serve to lift us from this decaying position? Nope. Not by a damned sight. There is only down. Yes, this is unfortunate, however the facts are simple: we placed ourselves in this fiery hole, we did nothing to cause a rise (even all those years ago), and we consciously forced decisions and others' hopes by leveraging our position and responses so as to leave everyone speechless. There is only one avenue of hope available and it is solely our own. On the upside, that means we may still be open to a lift. On the downside, we may not be willing to follow any line which is defined by positive. We find little reason to allow ourselves the upward angle due to the remains and ashes of the past. Yes, the actions which affected the others.

That fucking ship has sailed, and the shore has been destroyed.

Julianne will be fine. Yay!


We mentioned that the essays were all beginning to sound alike, and that is no fucking shit. They really are, and there is not a damned thing we can do about it. This is not over until the depression dictates a final sentence. In the meantime, we will drink away the past and wallow around the office with headphones and Neige's voice being absolutely rammed into our eardrums. Oh, and spread the fucking joy here. Yeah, that sounds about right. We literally have no other direction nor any different well from which to drink. This is it, kids. As much as we would enjoy some other place, another set of circumstances, or any type of upwardly mobile direction, the patterns of the last several years have shown us that we are just not capable, and any effort spent in an attempt to avoid both the memories of where we were versus where we now live is wasted and littered with pain.

All of our favorite terms are here -- black; were; tried; left; fail; Julianne; Her. Ugh.


That's a red-letter word if ever there was such a thing. That fucking pronoun is an emotional black hole of a tattoo on our collective minds.

What are we supposed to do? Avoid the editor? Avoid the memories? Avoid images of both Julianne and Her? That is just not going to fucking happen and any comments addressed in such a direction will meet with knives. Live with it. We are. We have no fucking choice anymore. Actually, the more likely scenario is that we do have a choice and are unwilling to exercise any options. That is difficult to argue due to the fact that one the most powerful aspects of being human is the nature of choice (second only to our incredible capability for language). Yes, unwilling to rise and unwilling to bend are two of the many brick walls which make up our psyche. The days are late, the choices are unacceptable, and the need is overpowering. The obsession is quickly becoming all that we are and any throw versus anything is fucking unlikely. The depression and diminishing nature of our ability to maintain daily life is just fucking taking over any ambition. All of the 'd' words we display here on a weekly basis are captalizing themselves and pressing us into sand -- within the sand we will be cast for all time. And then the soil. And then the decay.

Ok, enough of pressing the point of choice and the futility of anyone attempting to bend us.

Her images grace the index yet again. Do you see? We do. Everything is there yet terribly undefined. Oh yes, she is an example unlike nearly all others, but the fact remains that we are unable to advance the focus of why she is of such importance and why we are falling. The words are in short supply now, and beginning to fall just shy of the ability to allow our feelings to be displayed properly and fluidly. That is a problem. Soon there will be no words at all. How about that? End the misery? End the descriptive terms? End the whole fucking sordid mess? Whatever the fuck can be done to ease this pain.

Wow, this is becoming a repeating fucking mess. We made sense a few entries back, but now we are grasping for anything with meaning -- anything which can help. There is nothing. This index has fallen down a hill built from a lack of reasonable content. Where did the reason go? Did we push it away out of need? Desire? Something else? Or is this the road we manufactured to enable the requisite need to drive us insane? What? Inane? That is soon. Tune in. It's gonna be a hoot. Fuck... where were we? LOSING TRAIN OF THOUGHT. That's where. We know... don't say it.

Alright, the point of this entry is the difficulty inherent in dealing with a deviant and distorted desire for achieving something nearly impossible. Yes... nearly impossible. The slim chance cannot be denied, yet we are too frightened. One of those females is out there with an open mind and all of the other shit we need to know. She is, and she was. Oy, that is a part of the fucking problem here. The whole thing already happened but was cut short by the way of the world. The fucking steaming sewer of a world within which we all must deal with shit from one moment to the next.

Jesus H. Christ on a fucking rubber crutch, who knows anything now.

The memories are there, inside, and burning like hydrogen mixed with oxygen. They are there and fucking fresh. That flame will never extinguish, but can still provide us with a bit of assistance and clarity of thought. Enough to splay everything here, anyway. Maybe that is enough to ask of such a period. We should not push.

Why did she enlarge her breasts?

Look at her sitting there. Just fucking gaze. We NEED to understand this -- the obsession of her numerical beauty. All of the dimensions are there and awaiting the definition of a goddamned lifetime. A hundred numbers representing every single fucking reason -- every angle, radius, taper, separation, diameter and length -- all of it placed out there for the fucked up world to see. And without strict definition and attention to every conceivable detail, no one should be looking at her. No one at all.

Not. Even. Us.

Fuck it all anyway. We are just not going to get to the other side of this road without the train of life cutting us down like a fly on a windshield. We're done already, and we haven't even found the start.

We are bound now -- bonded -- to these computers, to the headphones, and to the endlessly beautiful and deeply emotional compositions which Neige has provided the world. There is no stop and there is no forward gear with which to move in any direction. Reverse is the whole affair now. Backward through the hopeless feelings and damaging fallout from the multitude of wrong directions and never-ending reminders of thousands of missed opportunities and detailed descriptions we have thrown to the wind with nary a thought to the consequences. The staff still feels as if we are moving forward toward something. Perhaps some self-supporting endeavor just like the early ideas back when this thing was young. We cannot blame them, and conversely must commend everyone for sticking with us throughout the years. There were many plans for a good, solid web future. The staff stayed and worked their tails off hoping to see fruition. Well, guess what? They are still here despite our intimate bond with the fucking soil and all of the decay related to this content. They are awesome to no end.

Does this sound like an epilogue? Or is it appearing closer to a resolution? Whatever the fuck, and we don't fucking know at all. The whole thing just sucks out loud and down to the ground. We did not intend to go in such a morbid direction, nor did we wish the content to come across like an endless bitch session for all of our mistakes. This shit just came to be out of a need to understand ourselves and our nature. The needs just became too much and the bearing surface is suffering. It is weakening and warping. The surface will not likely handle smooth transitions any longer. We have ruined it just like every idea and each step derived from dreams.

There is just no saving throw within view.

Not that she doesn't still look gorgeous



So what. That is a juvenile bastardization of an expression which has gone by the wayside in recent years. We employ it out of desperation. Yep. Another 'd' word. Fuck it.

Honestly, there has to be something we can do -- a direction we can attempt without the fucking train rolling over us. SOMETHING besides that cold end we think about all too often. May we find it? Oy, what a question. The fact remains that we must be willing to engage the search in earnest. That is possible, but the motivation is still stifled by the need for all of this dimensional horseshit. Fucking stifled to no end, it seems. The numbers are absolutely and massively in control. Each and every day we sit and pour it out here, and the goddamned result is nearly the same every time. She is in the images, the other one is in mind, and due to the combination of our nonexistent self-esteem and deep desire to forward this type of obsession we freeze in place before anything can be sought. These writings do not lie -- we are that fucking close to either giving the fuck up or pushing forth with reckless abandon. That means a real sexy chance of being destroyed by our desires. Real. Fucking. Sexy. Indeed.

Is there a clear answer?

There isn't even clear weather.

The certainties are few: holes, alcohol, words, isolation, and female forms. The ambiguity is basically everything else in this life. We have managed to stumble along this far, but even we cannot deny the stark contrast in the nature of what we place here. Even within the last few weeks the words have become far more desperate than throughout the prior several months' worth of content. The simple conclusion is that we are tapering down to the original central point. Yes, that would be the fact that we tasted the dream and now it is gone -- seemingly forever. No two individuals are alike and such a thought feels like burning acid within us.

Many questions, many misgivings, and still no answers. And we cannot avoid the fact that we are more open now -- here -- than ever. In spite of everything, that is not a surprise. Naturally we do not expect answers to come flying out of the clear blue sky. Of all the '-ists' which can be applied to us, the main gist is 'realist'. We just fucking know that these things are unnatural in the mainstream and that we are deviant to the point of being placed outside the world and into this tiny and fucked up space. We KNOW, for Christ's sake. Don't say it! Heh. We overanalyze ourselves enough for a cityfull. We are either going to fulfull this or sit here and become lumps of nothingness. Holes, void of any recognizable traits other than the ability to type.

Ok, back to the title as a subject. The bearing surface is a term used to describe anything mechanical which needs to be machined to within extremely tight tolerances in order to mate with some manner of other components. The surface makes contact and 'bears' some measure of load and/or stress. This would be us. We are bearing this unending and eccentric need, and the surface is nearing failure. Simple. We are not having an easy time of this and there is nothing out in the world which can help in any way. We have the outlet, the editor, and the staff's support, but aside from those few components, we feel that the load-bearing threshold is near.

There you go. Suck it.

She has everything, all over her, and it can be too much to bear

Forget the fucking rest... her facial structure is plenty

'The falcon cannot hear the falconer'. Hmm. Yes, there is too much here, too much in mind, and far too little time to work everything through. There is not nearly enough time until we go nova. And that is quite a sum of years, don't you think? Hmm again. Well then, perhaps we should just stare and drown. Julianne is fine, sitting there in her knee-high boots and looking every bit the part, and we are over here -- wherever this place is located -- and searching for every fucking answer. None is forthcoming, for fuck's sake. The tension now is far beyond any level we could have dreamed, or can dream. It is overbearing and the surface cannot hold much longer. We are just not strong enough to handle all that is going on inside.

'Drizzle, drazzle, drozzle, drome; time for this one to come home'.

Into the void."

[10:33 pst 03/26/2017 CE, 1490549580 E]

Current audio: Alcest 'Eclosion'

The archived site updates have been modified in order to ease navigation. The individual bookmarks for all of the titles are now heading the actual essay rather than a dated entry. Smoother. We may restructure the dated bookmarks, as well. This will involve reversing the order of each section to follow a rising-date rather than the current format. Time will tell.


The Elixir and the Void


We recently spent a bit of time in San Francisco for a small event, and that means we were in the presence of those on the streets. The event was pleasant -- good people, a few drinks, and some speeches. On the outside it appeared as if everything was fine for us, but oh my... the mental images and difficulties were swirling around within like always. Of course! Why the fuck not? Another day gazing at the (absent) numbers and straining to remain upright while in public. They were there, too. The forms which bring us to a vastly different place. The slide downward began almost immediately as we exited the vehicle and strolled toward the venue. All bad. Ugh.

We moved along the street and into the bar (which was unbelievably beautiful, restored to its Victorian glory) where the event was to take place. After ordering we ventured back to the sidewalk to look at the lovely exterior paint and century-and-a-half old windows, and naturally ran straight into a gorgeous form in heels. She paid no attention to the onlookers and glided right on by. We stood, flabbergasted, and immediately began to assemble the words which appear here. The picture of her went by quickly but proceeded to cement itself within us -- and here we are yet again. Alone, in pain, and wondering how much longer we can continue this project with no supporters and no positive outlook. The idea arose to create business cards which carry a QR that would direct prospective interests to a splash. Once there, they would see what we are attempting -- in a completely safe and anonymous manner -- and find contact information. So far, this is the best fucking plan we have had throughout the past two years. We cannot imagine any other method for soliciting anyone to look in our direction. Sound good? Who the fuck knows, but at this late date, and considering how close we have become to giving up on everything, it may be worth a shot. What is the worst outcome? Nothing happens. That is fine... crippling, but fine. No harm whatsoever to anyone aside from ourselves. And since we are already suffering to no end, the fact remains that the damage could be minimal, and something to which we are accustomed in fucking spades.

Perhaps we need to try. Hmm.

The more time we spend crammed into this void of information the less likely we will survive at all. Fuck.

Amy has the numbers... yet we do not know of them


As the early afternoon went on, there were others. We did our best to maintain a social face and demeanor, but as usual we spiraled into that familiar hole caused by not knowing... not seeing... not able to quantify. There was no possibility of any study whatsoever, and being in mind of this from the outset did not matter, yet again. We just stood, gazing when possible, and dreaming of the work we feel may bring us up out of the dirt. It can, and might. We just need to get the fucking word out there and see what develops. Reasonable? Who knows.

Through the window we looked upon beauty. She crossed the street and walked by the establishment -- all business -- and was dressed to the fucking nines. Her height was exaggerated by heels and a long neck, and her breasts were strained to maintain their position within her sweater. The difference between her chest and midsection below was enough to cause enormous harm within us. As she moved past, we could see slender, defined arms, fingers which screamed at us, and gorgeous chestnut hair bouncing on and off her back. The image was incredible to see. She was quite the gazelle, and with the form of dreams. She glided beyond our vision as we returned to the table, and we then proceeded to fall into a crack in the fucking earth. Yes, she had that sort of effect upon us in mere moments. Good god, why did we have to see? Why could we not pay attention to those inside the bar and not put ourselves through the pain yet again? Fucking hell, why? Now we must sit here and type with her beauty and form spinning us in circles. This type of encounter is going to kill us if we do not change something. We are certain that the endless bellyaching on this index will be ignored soon, and we will be left even more alone. Nice, right?

'Fucking do something.'

Well, this is where we reside now... between the pain of not realizing the obsession, and the difficulty and fear inherent in taking a step. Would it be a step forward or back? We cannot know. The whole thing may prove to be a waste of time and effort. At least remaining where we are now is safe, if cramped. To broaden could be hurtful. Not to others, just toward ourselves. There is no denying the idea that the QR cards could lead to something. There is also no denying the possibility that we could come across as deranged. And if we were not in such dire circumstances, that statement would be funny. Heh.

The ratio which began the obsession


Upon leaving the venue in SF, we ventured nearer to home and lo and behold, the fucking barback was there (remember her? We do!). And naturally she was working and looking gorgeous as ever. Did we have a QR card? Nope. Had we printed them sooner we could have made our first contact and had the ability to at least speak with her about the idea and learn of her thoughts about the prospect of being a research subject. We are familiar enough with the barback to hold a conversation without coming across as insane (inane?) Well, we didn't have a card, we avoided the subject and did nothing aside from developing the thoughts which bring us down. Fuck. Whatever. We were there yet again in her lovely presence and dreaming of wrapping her in a seamstress tape over and over. Oy. That sounds twisted. You know what we mean. Fuck, again.

Now that the DP splash has been published and invitation QR cards are (finally) being printed, perhaps we can distribute a few and possibly rise above the darkness. There are no guarantees, of course, but at least we can send a tad bit of words to some individuals and gauge their reactions. We are expecting either nothing or backlash, but whatever. This is the largest step taken in more than two years.

Here we shall sit (as usual) and await some sort of contact from prospective subjects. At least we will be in the office with something out there in the world. That is a good feeling provided the whole thing does not go south at the first sign of interest. There must be a good amount of conversation and explanation before anything develops, and if/when that happens we will report here. We cannot publish findings, images, or any type of information regarding the process, but of course the simplest of news can be slapped onto the index. There are no links in that direction either. This is a part of the anonymous nature of such a project. We shall see... and soon. We have no doubt there are more examples of that which we seek, and they will come strolling by in the near future -- perhaps similar to the unbelievably shapely gazelle pictured below. For fuck's sake... just look at her arms. Unreal.

The tapers we NEED to measure


Honestly, this may be the only chance we have. Every other fucking endeavor has gone south, in one way or another and for one reason or another. If we let this thing go... dirt. You know. We've retreaded this shit for years. Well, here it is.

The glaring fact is (once again) we have placed ourselves neatly within this hell of a space -- this hole in the world. We created it out of nothingness and crafted the surroundings for our needs, and realizing there is but one path out has been like a massive v-shaped thoroughfare in which the narrowing lines represent our outlook. The point of it? The point, in the end. The end point is the point. Wait. What? Who knows. We are slowly losing our minds and any attempt at an explanation seems futile. Suffice to say our shit is drawing closer -- both on the sides and in our minds -- and the QR cards had better bring something. Anything. Maybe just a nice slap across the face. Yep. Whatever the fuck, it is coming.

The image above is quite similar to the woman by the window. Yes, we realize that due to the nature of that image her dimensions are all skewed and difficult to imagine, but still, she is similar. Either she is tall, or she desperately needs to start eating more. Hee! Um, yeah. She is thin, but not to the point of looking unhealthy, just thin, and still displaying muscle tone and definition. Do you see? The numbers could tell exactly how she looks -- mathematically -- and a subsequent comparison to a woman with a less slender build would show the disparity in attractiveness. Numbers, damn it. The numbers will dictate, identify, quantify, and clarify all that we are hoping to know. And we just need to get the fucking thing started. Are we deviant? Well, not so much when one considers all there is in the world. We are curious, and that curiosity has become an obsession, and maybe that obsession can yield results which can be explained clearly.

Too much use of the word 'maybe'. Hmm... maybe.

Below is yet another image of Julianne, and you can see that she is not as slender as the woman above, yet still showing off definition. Why? Ugh. Why, indeed. We would love to put all of this shit together and make some semblance of a study, and then a table of data. Hundreds of measurements followed by (likely) a haphazard analysis of the two women. We just don't know if any of it will make sense, but we need to try. Height? Simple. Weight? Equally simple. The rest? Not simple, and a set of numbers which will require quite a commitment from the subject. Oy.

We are all over the map, as usual, but fuck it. We have no choice anymore.

Disparity we MUST record

Julianne is a prime example because she is not nearly as slender as some of the insane images which have graced this index throughout the last two years, but still she is unbelievably attractive, and according to our research this is unversally agreed upon. Some of the other women are extremely tall and thin, and that body type may not receive the same type of appreciation. It may be a niche and/or some sort of fetish (height). We have no opinion as far as those two facets are concerned. We simply wish to make comparisons from one to the next. The last order of business from this site is to tell others what to think. The single most subjective topic in this world is physical beauty, and arguing the point... well, we may as well just pound sand on the beach.


The woman who walked by the Elixir window was unlike Julianne in that she was taller and obviously not in a retouched digital image. Seeing her in person was both a tremendous push toward the obsession and another measure of distance developing between us and the same. We simply cannot imagine being near enough to communicate nor measure. And the issues are many... well, you know. The closeness involved will be dramatic and those circumstances are likely going to be arduous. We dread and anticipate simultaneously. We watched her briefly and the thought of that level of involvement became petrifying. Julianne is a model and doubtless accustomed to scrutiny, however a random beauty from everyday life may not be easily placed into the lens and recorded physically without misgivings. Where are we going with this, and why have we said the same thing in so many different ways? Fucking hell, who knows. We are losing it -- that cannot be successfully contradicted -- and the time which has passed since losing Her is becoming one giant blur. We do not know how to conduct ourselves within this index any other way. This is it, and this is all we have. So... suck it up.

The bearing surface, the void of information, the air, the blood, the fall, and the distance need to combine and find cohesion soon. We are desperate to the point of the situation becoming dangerous. Not for the site, mind you, but for us.

Enter the danger, leave the security."

[06:12 pdt 04/09/2017 CE, 1491743520 E]

Current audio: Wolves in the Throne Room 'Two Hunters'

The DP splash is undergoing some polishing before returning to the production environment. Admin needs some clarification for potential clients to avoid any issues while advertising.

Other sections of the content have remained unchanged during these last few weeks due to the focus shifting from past projects to DP.


The Danger and the Security

"Out there is the worry, the danger, and the possibility of the worst ostracization. Within these walls remains the security and comfort of the familiar. We are creatures of habit -- no doubt -- but at what cost? Can we stay in here and do this forever? Permanence is a frightening word. Is the danger outside worse than the isolation, obsession, and need of a lifetime? This is difficult to ponder on any given day, but sitting here with Neige (gladly) destroying our eardrums, the effort is increased to the point of pain. Danger out there... comfort in here. Which? Fuck.

Day after miserable day we must contend with the dreams and the unending thoughts of the realization which seems impossible. The outlet is right here and you are reading it. The ONLY outlet. Reality has become nothing without the escape of isolation. Wait. What? Sounds like a contradiction? No shit. The one example... the one goddamned fucking real and available subject was the most considerate and caring soul to cross our path. The Raven. Unfortunately, the entire shitaree never left the fucking ground and the result for us is this -- the extreme need to isolate, mentally explore, and vomit the words into oblivion (otherwise known as the public domain of the internet). Yes, the fucking Raven, and we have gone on at considerable length about Her, the connection, and the unending fascination within which She was the primary symbol. There was simply no fucking end to the compassion and beauty. As stated in multiple entries, the speed at which She became nearly everything was striking and without remorse or reverse gear. We sped in Her direction at ablative velocity and the damage path quickly formed. Now, of course, we must deal with the loss, subsequent fallout, and Her influence upon everything which beauty has become to us. We were dangerous together, the late days are dangerous with regard to our livelihood, sanity, and security, and as a result the words here are falling like embers from a massive fire which we have lit -- danger of yet another type.

Yes, She meant that much.

And now we begin a composition which was played multiple times -- over and over, in fact -- during the period, and the typical resulting feeling is one of despair. Combine this with the painful memory of Her loss and the destructive days which followed, and the cocktail becomes more damage. Fuck it... why not? Do we believe anything can lift us at this point? Nope. The QR cards are printed and awaiting a subject or two, but the sad truth is that the likelihood of fruition for this shit is extremely slim. She was there for us, and She is gone. Will there be someone of similar soul? Hmm. We can only hope, and that hope is as narrow as the rope from which we often hang. There is no denying possibility, however, and that is a small percentage point of the remaining ambition. The Raven wished for that and forced us to promise never to lose everything. That is more danger... right fucking there. Do you see it? Do you see the approaching limits of our strength and constitution? We see them at every waking moment.

The numerical properties of a lifetime

We stood there, outside the station on that frightful Saturday two years ago and politely asked Her to stand, facing us, and to place Her feet together. We needed to see a comparison of Her outer and inner thighs, knees, and ankles, and She immediately did as we requested. No delay, no questioning why... She stood as we asked right away, smiling. She then asked if that was 'ok', and we fell off a cliff into the abyss. The situation was too much to handle, and this after years of dreaming to ask that simple question. Her understanding of our need was tremendous. The only caveat to Her posing in any manner was for us to acknowledge that She was not perfect. Of course, we did, because there is no such thing in the biological world -- no frame of reference with which to attempt upholding such a description. We knew immediately of the reasoning behind Her stipulation. That must have come from years of hearing platitudes the likes of which we can only hope to imagine. The woman wished to be a person, above all things. Well, that is an easy one because there is no doubt. We spoke to Her in a respectful manner and She reciprocated by doing the same. The entirety of hours spent in such a place cannot be described easily, nor will we attempt anything further. The fact remains that She went from representing the danger to embodying the security.

Such a statement may seem odd to others, but we lived it from the inside. This is a frightening standpoint from which to attempt any furthering of our obsession. That situation took place in reality, and it now sits in the mirror and haunts any idea of contacting others. She felt an appreciation for what we were trying to do. Will anyone else? Would you? As we state all too often: Who the fuck can know? There is no forward motion without fear. Diving in -- even handing a card to someone -- is going to cause so much distress that we are fearing the act of carrying the fucking things. The ideal outcome would be an open mind, but the fact remains that we could be contacted by anyone, even an individual that should be avoided. Again, there is no security in this type of advertisement and solicitation. Either we throw it out there and take the risk, or we continue on this narrow, icy road into oblivion.

Which will it be?

As of this writing, the most comfortable path is to sit here in this cocoon as we have for so many fucking years and just fade away into nothingness. The security of such a decision cannot be denied. Sure, we are going to sound worse and worse, allow ourselves less venturing out into the world where the exploration could continue, and just rot, but at the very least we still have plenty of alcohol -- and tons of reason.

And the chair is amazing.

Innermost radii... why? Will we ever KNOW?

At some point we will come to a decision. The truth is that the cards are printed and the splash index is live. The next step, for all of its fright, is upon us. What will happen? Perhaps a more fitting question might be this: Are we too afraid of moving forward after all this time? Yep, that's it. Right on the fucking money. The security is powerful, and the obsession is equally powerful, however the issue is us. Can we handle the change? Can we deal with the implications of such an ambitious project? Will we remain here and drink ourselves into the ground in order to avoid the possibility of total failure? Probably. The mere thought of things going south for the first outing is beyond comprehension. We have written over and over about the obsession -- no shit -- but now we have taken a step and a position and goddamn it we are frightened. For fuck's sake... what the fuck are we doing? Is anyone reading? Are we still completely alone after losing Her to the fucking gods? Christ on a cross.

Ok, deep breath. We're getting a bit overwhelmed here.

Fuck it. Let us throw caution to the wind along with everything else we have attempted and push this until the shit breaks up during reentry. Flaming, burning... dust. Why not? What else do we have now? Are we going to continue down this muddy slope and into the storm drain only to end up flailing for our lives in la mer? We have been there before, and the result of that situation was damaging and drunken behavior like nothing else. Fuck it, the alcohol has been flowing into this content all day. Can you tell? Oy, we can. But whatever the motivation, the fact remains that this period is becoming difficult. Venting should be expected. And the truth of the matter is that we own the domain and the space, so whatever we wish to place here is of no one else's concern. Yes, you guessed it, we are going downhill at an increasing rate. The catalyst this time is the possiblity of moving forward. Did we not say that already? Well, we're close and the fear is mounting. Fuck.

And this entry is, as usual, all over the fucking place. Why not.

Another gazelle, but too thin? What IS that?

And here we are as always... wallowing, drinking, sitting in the midst of yet another downtrodden evening in front of this infernal editor, and trying to make sense of anything at all.

At least this place is familiar. We know it all too well. Upon many occasions has the editor and interface been our only friend, and this night is no different. Another glass, another mistake, and another segment of time spent wondering why. Just as the worst entry began: 'Here we fucking sit'. No matter the state of affairs in the world nor our state of mind, we end up in the same location with the same glass and the same words. And the result is that we feel the unending need to apologize. How did we arrive here in this lowest of denominations? Are we always to be the bottom of the reciprocal? Why? Do we drive ourselves here due to the depression? That is a possibility. Another is the slope... the one we always end up sliding down despite the positives and outlook we attempt to locate. Everything is just bad now. Too many unanswered questions and entirely too much sludge within our minds. There seems to be no end to any of the negative feelings and floundering efforts. We simply must go up from here, but the direction is unfamiliar. Years of being weighed down with the obsession and the trials of maintaining life on a daily basis are beginning to catch up with our position. Yes, we realize that others are in the midst of similar circumstances, however we cannot comment on what others' situations may bring to them. We can only attempt understanding for ourselves. That is plenty.

All of the dimensional horseshit aside, we are not well by any stretch of definition. We are still clinging to the pleasures and time afforded us, but on the outside things are being pressed toward the negative. At any second we feel the urge to stop... the flash which will end our difficulties. Such a drive cannot be denied, and we know all too well that we are not alone in that place. Even at this very moment we know the hour is late in the day and we should be retiring for the night. Unfortunately, the push to write and consume is still fresh. Plus, Neige will not let up so long as we are donning the MDRs.

'Oiseaux de proie'

And that complex composition leads to the remainder of the album and we happily become its victim. There is NO FUCKING SAVING THROW against any of it, nor any end to these feelings. We are dangerously close to fleeing the editor and the drive to see fruition, and that is also bad. As near as we are to realizing the actual obsession which has been the catalyst for this entire endeavor, the end of all things may prove to be the outlet of choice. Too much fear, too much passage of time, and the level of isolaton has pressed us into a cast. We are not happy to admit that the weight of this obsession may result in our unwillingness to follow through. We have encountered endless difficulties and a tremendous lack of understanding which is pushing us toward the soil. Yes, we will admit that such an outcome is very sad, but the combination of our depression and the prior points stated are creating pressures which are unrelenting.

And we promised Her. That is that.

Less definition, but how much less?

Realizing that the answers are not forthcoming, our drive must maintain itself.

And the security seems to be waning. And the glaring fact is that we are slowly destroying ourselves due to the harsh and unrelenting memories of all of the combined mistakes -- and the waste left behind. For the few that know of that which we speak, there is no denying any of it. You lived it, we caused it, and now read the endless evidence that we are suffering beyond description. Believe it. And this fucking shithole of a world forced Her into a decision which has left society without the love, understanding, compassion, and inner beauty which will never be again. Yes, we can state this without uncertainty: Fuck you for doing this to one of the most amazing creatures which had ever walked the earth. Just fuck you for taking Her from us. We will forever look upon the multitude as enemies. Just fuck you all.

Ok, we've gone on too long with the complaining and bitching regarding the woman who helped to begin this obsession. No more of that. From this point forward we will do our best to float within the security which we know so well. This place is safe, albeit confining. Whatever. At least we have the comforts of life within these walls, and that means we can remain here throughout the distance. As the days fly by us, we will continue to polish the DP splash, edit images, dream of the outlet, and remain as calm as physically possible. We obviously cannot easily let up on ourselves, nor can we let the near and far past issues simply fall off on the side of the road. These things are a part of the reason we are here at all, and to let them go means to change ourselves and that is just not in the fucking cards.

And now the fork is embedded and the equation feels unsolvable."

[06:32 pst 04/16/2017 CE, 1492349520 E]

Current audio: Agalloch 'Ashes Against the Grain'

The cloud and local indexes have been further streamlined this week. The FAQ has been pulled down for rework and should return within a month or so. That content has not been updated in many years (other than dates and links), and is in need of a revamp top to bottom. As soon as admin has the notes ready, we will code and publish.

Regular readers may notice the site direction has been veering back and forth from DP to other subjects being drummed up from the past. This will continue as admin throws memories up on the index. We do not know what to expect.

Also, the idea of removing the site news section has come up again recently. This would change the structure of the main index and place each essay at the top of the page. We still do not know if our reports will go away or not. Time will tell.


The Fork and the Equation

"We drove... from there to here. We traveled the roadways in earnest, and feeling that we were taking the correct path -- making the right decision. That journey was one tine on the fork we created out of a deep need for the beauty. We found it, temporarily. And then the world fell in upon itself leading us to the worst possible set of circumstances, feelings, and remorse. We are still there. Here. Wherever we placed ourselves. This locale of confusion, depression, alcohol, and the continuing questions which feel as much like knives as the recollection of that terrible day. We are in more than one void: The hole which developed as a result of the obsession, and the vacuum which formed when we removed breathable air from life. This position now stands as the most arduous daily trial we could have imagined, yet never thought ourselves capable. But we did it anyway. Sour, decaying issues... one after the other.

All of the issues remain, and they do not let up at any juncture. The situation stands now as it was then, so many years past. We did it all.

Yes, we drove the path into this void and vacuum. We drove ourselves into realizing that nothing was as it appeared, and the realization which gripped us like a noose took hold and has not let up. Nothing is the same, nothing is toward the positive, and the nothingness we previously remarked upon within this content has cemented itself without mercy. We thought we were doing the right thing for ourselves. What a fucking farce. The damage path became overwhelming to the point at which we struck a deal with ourselves: Live with it or die with it. And we are still amidst that quandary and challenge. Looking to the left at the other monitor we see our progress, promise, and desire. We also see the result of the worst possible break from life that we could have imagined.

Fork in the Road
Perhaps the other tine would have been better

Our situation is well-deserved, to say the least. We caused a break of epic proportions by taking that fucking tine, and for a thousand days thereafter we suffered. That does not matter. What does make a difference is the suffering on the other side of the world which we left behind with a snap decision. The current thought of leaving that life is unreal. We cannot believe ourselves capable of such a massive and all-encompassing shift from daily life into the emotional gas clouds now floating both within our heads and over that little house not far from our location. Everything was in line to ensure a loving and secure future. The home, career, partner, hopes and dreams of a lifetime were in process and glowing like the moon over the fucking desert. We had everything we wanted and needed. Now, however, nothing like that is remotely possible. We have become a self-made black hole of depression, alcohol, financial distress, and never-ending bitching. But we consciously did this -- we left there and drove here. We did it in no uncertain terms and without remorse. We just drove our stupidity to another location, and that is as easy a task as taking to the knife in avoidance of feeling. Wait... that is not easy at all. We have headed in such a direction many times throughout the past several years but the action was impossible. It still is, however the feelings push us toward that type of end quite often. We cannot avoid them.

The knife.

During the first several weeks of being on the coast we wrestled with the notion of walking into the sea with bottle in hand, but the other soul close by would have none of it. She would not even entertain the idea due to her own closeness with death. Yes, we were codependent and miserable on many levels. Still, what went on within us was kept closer as time elapsed. We knew of the fallout from leaving home so definitively, and we knew exactly what was happening there as a result of our decaying sensibilities. The horrendous suffering we created is still nearly enough to send us to the fucking soil. How could it not? We have clarity of thought now just as we did after everything unraveled. The drive to harm ourselves was not solely born of the obsession -- it began in the previous life, years ago. There are so many reasons to end everything and the fork was certainly not the origin. It has become another notch. A big one. The biggest, in fact.

The Drive
Driving to destruction

The image above was shot during the drive -- directly above the steering wheel. We were on the bridge and screaming to get to the other side. We needed to be there, or at least we thought we did. That was not the hour of the decision, but the hour of mass uncertainty, illusion, and the disjointed thoughts which did not allow us to reason anything beyond the white lines. We kept the pace until reaching a destination which would soon destroy all rationality and sense. We just fucking drove ourselves insane, but did not know of it. We were blinded by so many needful things that any other possibility was simply and mindfully destroyed prior to becoming clear.

And yes, that is the hood and headlight of a black Corvette ZR-1 -- the one which was mentioned here.

The destination came quickly, and from there all went awry within several lives and two heads. There was no longer any semblance of up. None. We remained in relative physical comfort, yet across the way... the violent unraveling of a lifetime, and all manner of destruction. Innocence gone, love diminished, family disassembled at the joints... and an entirely beautiful level of living absolutely obliterated throughout the course of an evening. We never went back along that path, and the remaining fallout continues to this very second. Currently we are sitting in the third incarnation of living space since the divide we caused, and all positives have narrowed and focused into this space -- just this outlet. Each moment spent in front of the development environment is sans happy recollection, however. Forgetting any detail from that terrible day or the many which have followed is just not going to happen.

To this very second, the idea of what took place at that home is crippling to consider. Just a thought, a phone call, and a few hours of unreasonable and fragmented conversation and the world imploded on the most beautiful soul we have ever encountered. We caused pain on every level and much of it continues as we type these words. We know that first hand. And... us? Well, that does not matter any longer. We did it, and whatever shit hell we must plow through is deserved in fucking spades. In fact, we are hoping that nothing positive will ever be laid before us. We are expecting to fall, slowly and continuously, until the end. No happiness here, just memory. Oh, of course we would prefer some relief, but that is not going to happen in this life. Be it our conscious choice or by external influence... either way we are doomed.

Massive Destruction
Massive destruction

A change of such magnitude naturally requires an enormous amount of time for adjustment and some sort of realignment within the world. The disruption seemed unending during the first several months, and even now it continues. As comfortable and secure as we can be in front of this damned editor and environment, the mind still retains every single detail -- each second which passed -- of that unimaginable day.

During the first few months in our new location, we spent time in the City as much as possible. We were seeking distraction, and so was the woman at our side. In fact, after exactly one month, we had taken this trip solely in hopes of said distraction. On the surface everything was fine and dandy for us, yet deep within there was much turmoil -- some caused by her situation as well as ours, and some caused by the togetherness which had been ill-conceived from the outset. Although Molly Magee's tavern felt as another world, the reality spun inside us like shit in a powerful blender. And the City was similar. Guinness, Jameson, and Newcastle kept our feelings at bay, and helped the connection between us develop in a very distorted manner. We strolled recklessly and with nary a thought to the future of anything. We simply kept the pace of attraction, photography, and the indulgent nature which became second only to breathing. She was just the individual to assist in our selfish and destructive behavior because she was also on a path crafted from pain and guilt. Something similar had been caused by her -- a long-term relationship sliced to ribbons -- and we came along at a moment when she wished for a partner in crime, so to speak. The City helped with everything due to the endless bars, restaurants, shopping, and scenery.

And all of the elements came together for us... in our continuing drunken stupor. The cameras snapped up everything in sight, and we spent hour after spinning hour wandering the streets in search of clarity and reason. Of course, none of that could be found no matter where our feet carried us. We simply darted in random directions and maintained our flirty and foolhardy nature. Being in the City nearly five days out of seven helped to galvanize our position as certifiable wanderers with the breath of a distillery's steam vents. The piers, the waterfront, the Mission, and most notably North Beach became havens for our needs. We loved all of it, but love was hardly the term which could be applied to the entire situation. The fact remains that we had each caused emotional damage from which there was no return nor was there any possibility of repair. Everything we collectively left behind had been abandoned seemingly without remorse. All of this had been floating amidst our walks like a decaying life swirling within a cloud.

This was the tine we had chosen, and for all of the unstable reasoning which brought us toward such a place, the ease in daily life became solely available through the outings. The other tine of the fork was slowly diminishing in the sad manner we expected. Despite our distinct lack of reason, the truth still hovered behind every sordid moment, and due to her situation being quite similar, the combination was self-defeating.

The Bart Platform
The conveyor of so many trips into the city

The division we caused affected every aspect of family relationships as well as our friends. We had an enormous network of contacts, a huge level of financial interests, and responsibilities related to the house and work. All of that came to a crashing halt and caused distress on every front. The split resulting from our decision to choose that goddamned tine also forced her to rework the banking and home mortgage. In at least one way it worked out well for her because of the loan modification which would not have otherwise been available or feasible. That allowed her to maintain that little house and her stability. We lost out, naturally, but that did not matter. All we hoped for was her comfort. Massive remorse did not make forgiving ourselves possible.

And now we sit in the worst possible position we could have imagined. There is no future, little security, no retirement, and loads of discomfort. The before picture was beautiful. The after picture? Below.

The Resulting Damage Path
The wrong tine did this

During the winter of 1992 we attended a birthday party. The subject of the occasion was us -- our twenty-fifth. Family, food, a bit of booze, and the fantastic warmth of a house in Livermore. Everyone who mattered to us was there. The television was always on in the background and the conversation was as it had been for similar gatherings throughout many years. The entire picture was one of comfort and stability as we have rarely experienced. We milled around the house socializing and enjoying the affair, and many moments into that day we noticed a magnetic notepad upon the refrigerator. The pad was often used for grocery lists, but on that day it displayed an equation: '100÷25=4 A Quarter of a Century!'. And that string of characters has become a reference point in our history. The equation was a simple gesture commemorating the day, but now it stands in stark contrast to our current situation as a result of the fucking fork. That day was full of wonder and enjoyment the likes of which we cannot match in these late days. Everyone present was younger (some are gone now, which is another reason to look upon that party with fond memories), and full of life. The food was always good and the comfort of that house cannot be overstated. We had a bright-eyed partner -- loving and caring -- who helped us to dream of a future with light. She was the embodiment of beauty and passion, and her outlook was always toward the up. During that period so many years ago, we felt the same. We were unconcerned with whether or not the future held success because we were constantly relaxed about everything... all aspects of daily living. Weekdays were spent working and dreaming of the weekends with that woman, and the weekends were awash with fun. The occasional trip to the high country was made even better when we traveled with her. Of course, it was all very low-budget, but that did not matter because we had the best times just being together. The equation included all of that happiness and comfort, and this is the reason it feels so distant now. Along comes the first of many forks resulting in a split and thousands of miles between us. The fork and that fucking equation are intimately related.

Everything just mixes in a haphazard nature due to our inability to make reasonable decisions regarding anything emotional or otherwise important to our stability. And the event took place so long ago... we still had years ahead and directions laid out before us. Options. Now we have none of that.

The tine we chose has sharpened the contrast between that equation and our present downtrodden condition. The obsession has also heightened our awareness of said contrast. We have effectively removed the early options by allowing time to pass without any attempt to improve or stabilize life. We are traveling through time -- as it increases in velocity -- still unable to push toward any positive trajectory. As stated in past entries, we are cemented by our own actions, and moreso by our vast compliment of inactions.

We are beginning to run short of air within this safe, and we have not experienced a crest in years."

[07:27 pdt 04/23/2017 CE, 1492957620 E]

The 2017 Archive has been split into thirds just as we did with older archives back in the early 00s. The content is growing at an alarming rate due to admin being in the office much more often than throughout the past two years. We simply need to ensure speedy load times and accurate bookmarks. The month bookmarks will stay accessible on each index and simply direct browsers toward whichever of the three pages holds the content. The titles will only be displayed for the four months on each page. Also, we may duplicate some of the more prominent essays from the archive and place them in the writing section to make them stand out a bit. Some of the work we have posted is quite dramatic and pointing browsers toward the longer entries may prove promising.

As things have been pared down this year, we feel that the organization can continue toward mobile editing and keeping the information streamlined. This will ease the transition and maintain our sanity as admin writes without control. We have also been toying with the viewport to keep an eye on how the site is displayed within smaller devices. For the time being, we are not allowing narrower resolutions. We are also hoping that most readers are accessing the site from a computer and not a mobile browser. We have little control over this other than restricting the content, so for now we will leave things as they are.

The 'current audio' index line has been removed.


The Safe and the Crests

"Throughout the past several years, we feel more and more as if we have arrived at the end or receding edge of something we can no longer achieve or experience. We have come far too late to see even the fringe which has been left behind. Currently, we are too involved in attempting to maintain a presence within the framework of society. The distance has become too great.

There is no safety beyond the safe, and we mean that literally. The safe is where this mass of information is kept. We cannot even explore the subject of the manner in which society has imploded due to no one else seeing it. The current spiritual and technological crises are avoided by people in favor of their comfort and exploitation of others for their own lift and gain, and the pervasive nature of this ignorance and apathy has become both a disease and an exponential drop. We cannot blame social media or any other daily activity because the creators of such connection had the intention of simply allowing people to remain in touch over long distances and share their lives with each other. The issue is people themselves. They do not wish to see the road ahead, and are uncaring of the path which developed as a result of their selfishness.

The safe holds our feelings regarding all of this. Yes, we speak here, but readership is so low -- and bounce rates so high -- that others will not see the point, let alone absorb it. So, we leave the information locked up and just fucking sit on it all the time. What else can we do? Scream? Nope. Again, no one is listening because they do not wish it. Years ago we spent much time railing on about our feelings for others and their self-centered nature. That was only the beginning. All of this time later, and the fact that we have passed the end of a period which was more caring, we can see the resulting societal losses and the increase in the gap between the current class and those which said class feels are behind. This is an ugly, decaying image and one which can only further itself into the future.

The Vault of our Time
Holding back the flood

The safe is spacious yet nearing capacity. We continue to stuff our information in there despite this, and in hopes of avoiding some sort of meltdown which will likely result in our demise. We just keep pushing toward the rear of the safe. We know not what else to do at this late date. No one listens and no one changes. As stated above, this outlet is all we have.

The entire affair is related to what we refer to as the 'walking path' analogy. People see signs which inform them of proper direction -- like avoiding the foliage -- yet eventually someone treads heavily outside the markers due to either being in a hurry or out of laziness, and creates a shortcut. Once that type of behavior takes place, others naturally follow suit in an attempt to save effort. Over time this becomes the new pathway and those who have been attempting to preserve the original route are challenged and defeated by the numbers. They become overwhelmed and simply adjust the pathway to favor the new shortcut. Thus, society finds dictation in making their own way outside the lines. This is a herd mentality and something which will destroy everything given the striking of limits imposed.

Do you see? Is the downfall of organized society viewable after reading something so juvenile? Perhaps you are one of the detractors on the surface, yet still willing and weak enough to press the world into your own little image of what may suit you. Which is it? For chrissakes this type of thing is destroying our way of life, and the social media comments above are directly related. And we cannot stop this wave of enrelenting apathy. So long as there are steaks in the freezer and the car is in the driveway outshining the neighbors', the decline shall continue until we are all gone. Question this philosophy and find the brick wall. Fucking question all of it and you will run into the wall at destructive speed... just like we did so many years ago. We found that end. We ran into it despite the hopes and alcohol. During the process we also ran straight into so many dysphemisms that we cannot even begin to list all of them. The terms we realized are along the lines of so many memes which are changing hands and phone numbers as we type these sordid words. There is just no end to any of this shit and we live right in the center of the mass detritus. Research this and fucking find the arrow pointing back here.

The flexible template, right at home

So why the revealing images of the female form? We need to see the beauty which still remains. Just as our diminishing patience and willingness to live within this sphere of dwindling brain activity, those images are displaying our decaying ability to deal with the obsession without realization. A few days ago we finally approached a woman, handed her a QR card, and asked that she visit the splash whenever she had the time and/or inclination. That was a huge and frightening step for us to take, but given the amount of time we have spent discussing and complaining about the whole thing, the familiar fear was overwhelmed by a larger need. She was pleasant and took the card at our request. We thanked her and walked away back toward our business. The operation was simple enough, yet it pushes us into a direction which creates much tension, and that results in more images displayed here. We need to see the advancing numbers just as we need to draw breath. And such will continue until our end.

And despite her being so gracious in reacting to our approach, the leverage, need and obsession must otherwise remain locked in the safe. Expanding upon any of those while in the company of others will lead to the questions and expressions we do not wish to experience. People will judge (not that we give a flying fuck about their opinion) and we will end up on the outside just as in the recent entry. We do not necessarily fear that type of situation, it just does not feel as though our dissatisfaction with them will help this endeavor at all. We simply need to avoid anything which may prove to be counterproductive. At this point in our progress, continuing forward has become undeniably important.

So, here we have a mass of words intertwined within the many images which helped to create our cozy little hell. The females displayed are of consistent stripe and appearance, and the inclusion is as critical to our survival as the words themselves. They have become our representatives. Live with it.

Exaggerated radii from shoulder to knee

Below is an absolutely gorgeous example of exaggerated ilial crests being shown clearly by the bridge of her bikini strap. This void (unbelievably similar to that of the Raven) is something rare in everyday life due to the requisite lack of midsection fat and relative pelvic structure. Her wide hips make the appearance take place -- as well as positioning, of course -- and the resulting shape sends our need into the fucking exosphere. Yes, those types of features are a good portion of our reasoning behind the need for understanding. The difference is the key -- why is this attractive? Sure, she is thin, which seems to be driven mostly by societal pressures and the like, but honestly many would say she is not at all due to being so thin. Does she look unhealthy? Perhaps. Many females see the media portrayal of what 'should' be considered sexy, and they push in that direction sans consequences. Their health may fail, but the need to fit the mold takes over anyway. And much of that feeling is doubtless for the little gaps which appear between her crests and abdominal muscles. Do you see? She is fucking thin.

Ok, we do not mean to head into such a technical and analytical description, but the point remains that her lack of fat is critical to this type of picture. Two images up is another example of the midsection muscles leaving 'troughs' toward her waist, but the crests are not immediately apparent. What? Ok. The whole thing doesn't need to be so nailed down at this point because the research is supposed to truncate the questions and press the subject into some sort of category. If we just had the fucking numbers and a frame of reference. Without any of that, our whole world just sits idly in the safe. Fuck. The only option we have left is to continue to seek this type of woman in hopes of a response.

The first recipient of a QR card was such a woman. She wore jeans, short boots with three-inch heels, a silk top and leather jacket. She was fairly tall relative to the others in the store, but we can only guess at a number. Her very thin frame was carried beautifully along the aisle and her long black hair shined under a mass of lights. She shopped for an item, took the card when we asked, and went on her way. All the while we forgot our way and began to worry if taking that step out of the security was a good decision. We may never know. And here we are full of worry and anticipation which may never see the light of day. Again, fuck.

The crests in question

As has been typed here over and over, what do we do? Keep searching? Hmm. The safe is safety and the crests are the concern. We recently mentioned that the card could end up in the hands of someone dangerous. This cannot be denied, but the truth is that the stretch out into society may end up worth the pain. We just do not have a clue as to which it will be.

And here we are again at the same location. Wondering. The woman below is not wondering. She is having a good time making a photo which is so playful and well-composed yet screaming at us to learn of why she looks like such an enigma. And she does, from hips to fingertips, look the part to a tee. Will we ever know? Probably not. Again we see and again we fall -- right into the funnel which compresses our sorry asses back to the fucking safe. And there we shall wait... for... something, someone, and somewhere. Another Raven? Her? Nope. That is not in the fucking cards. As much as She served to represent everything, there cannot be another woman of the like. This is not to say that the same vision is not out there, nor is it saying that the understanding does not exist. We are simply admitting that She was over the top in every conceivable category without even knowing it. We may just find someone who feels as the Raven did. The possibility cannot be forsaken, but the likelihood of such an occurrence is thinner than the uncertainty of a laser micrometer. Yep, it sucks. And we know this because we experienced it day after day for months. Both Her and the lasermic. Heh.

Not funny.

Well, maybe a bit.

We have thousands of images waiting in the wings to either be edited and displayed here or just to sit there awaiting inspiration. Thousands. That is correct. They are categorized and notated. They are on the development server and in the safe. They are always there and we cannot avoid the need to splay them for all to see. We need not look because we already know everything there is to absorb, but others may see something we missed. There are details aplenty and curves by the million. And some of them have eyes which look back at the camera. Human eyes. Should those stay in the safe? What about the crests? If they include a face should we leave them put away? Is it wrong to place them here? Fuck you. We own the domain and the images are in the other domain... the public domain. Does this make it ok? We do not know beyond the credits page. We just do not know anything.

This essay sucks out loud and right down to the ground. We had high hopes of venting in an organized manner but things seem to have gotten away from us yet again. Whatever.

Exaggerations of every ratio

We have one hundred QR cards minus one. Just one card left our hands and went into that of a beautiful example of walking sculpture. That was days ago and no word has been seen in the inbox. Nothing. Perhaps she looked at it and discarded the thing like a piece of junk mail. Who knows? She is a stranger to us and we to her. The other ninety nine cards await hands. They await being the bridge of a dream. They await our insistence upon... someone. They just sit there in the safe along with our extensive feelings, needs and desires. The crests await, too. They are out there somewhere awaiting our flexible measuring devices, mechanical curves, templates, and notebook. They also await our lenses. Along with the other fourteen hundred aspects of past and present life which are pushing us into the ground, the cards and crests are doing their part of helping us to lose grip with everything related to daily life. The only comfort is the editor and safe.

In the meantime we have an endless supply of storage space, a powerful machine to convey our feelings, and a vast storehouse of alcohol. We will continue this sordid pathway into nothingness and obscurity until such time as we are lifted from the ashes of the fork and into the landscape of the crests. We may just make it out of the safe with enough energy and drive to get the obsession to paper. The pull and influence we felt and feel from the Raven are becoming the only aspects of this world with the capability of keeping us alive."

To 2017 Part 2

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