Evan, the Black, and the Deadly Fluid Mature content No. 79 Published March 10th, 2019 6:10am pdt read ( words) Past entries "She is so fucking beautiful that looking upon her face is pain. Eyes, nose, eyebrows, everything. Ever since that woman hit the screen during her young years we have seen her pop up here and there, causing yet a different type of fall. We are there now due to the lovely vision of Sophie Ann LeClerc. Yes, the fucking vampire queen Evan portrayed years ago. The costuming, her demeanor and confidence, and that fucking pair of eyes which will never stop yelling at us. All of it. She took that role and played it well, however to look at her face with any number of expressions as she interacted with others takes us on a flight which always crashes. The beauty is just too much. She bends the numbers with her features and leaves us in a pile of desire. We look, we fall, just like so many times before. The only glaring upside is that she is an actor and as such we shall never look upon her gorgeousness in person. Way the fuck out of reach. That is good and bad. Mostly bad. Yep. All we can do is sit here and dream of such timeless beauty. Dream. Just like with all of the others. Dreams. Smashed. Smashing. Whiskey? Another type of smashed. Drunk. Tipsy. Wordsy. Handsy? Nope... Cannot. Nothing there anymore. All gone. And then those stupid fucking one- and two-word sentences. Sloppy. Whatever. Suck it. The thoughts flow faster than fingers on the keyboard and the result is a haphazard and screwy paragraph. Six years of English composition now reduced to fleeting moments and a lack of clarity. Part of it is the beauty. Her beauty. Evan. Why? She is just a person. A well-known person, certainly, but still one of note and enough to drive us insane upon staring. There is no end to it. And the sultry nature of that role pushes her even further up. The character is extremely intelligent, well-spoken, powerful, and so very beautiful. Again... No end to it. She is unreal. We have watched over and over for years and sat in awe of the combination. Other films and roles have displayed and clearly demonstrated Evan's vast command of her craft. She is quite alluring to see and every single character played is effective in pulling her audience toward that elusive suspension of disbelief. Ms. LeClerc is no different. And perhaps the fact that her character is a vampire adds to the exotic nature of her appearance. Heh. Unreal Evan is a woman for whom we have the utmost respect. Yes, her beauty is very unique and commands our attention at times, but the fact remains she is accomplished, successful, and dripping with talent. She is a person, as we have stated here about any number of women in the past, and that means our fucked up obsession and deviant eyesight takes a back seat to the same. We are out here... floating, flying, falling, fucked... and that is of no fault save for our own. We have gone over this, but the need to state it within each fucking entry which is not part of a larger story takes over. That is important, especially considering the depth of our deranged desires. Lots of words beginning with the letter 'd'. How about another? Depression. Suck it. Fuck it. Throw it at the wall. Roll that word around the tongue a bit as if it is a cordial. Swill it. Swirl it. Taste it. Swallow. Wait for the effects. Drunk. Depressed. Down. Deranged. Derailed. Driven, despite the rest. We keep going. The words flow like a river of shit down an abandoned slope leading nowhere. They overpower the banks and make a terrible mess. They carry so much disdain that we cannot even head in such a direction here. All of the terms have found the bottom already and left us empty. Evan. Beauty. Gorgeous. Unreal. Look at the blood and the unbelievably sexy nature of her with it slathered all over her lovely face. And the fangs. Puncture us. Please. Kill. Drink. Just let us see it happen before we lose sight. Let it fucking flow out of us as we lose consciousness. Do it. Bite, suck, drain. We will relish and love every fucking second. Oh yes, and fuck us at the same time. Too much? This will get worse, so buckle the fuck up. Or have we lost that sight already? Each little amplification of the female form which takes place within us upon seeing something which defines our issues will cause another drop, and said drops are cumulative. Add them from the last several years and one can imagine the amount of difficulty inherent in such damaging circumstances. Not good. Just... Not good at all. Evan is not at fault. Not by a damned sight. We always do it to ourselves. Those words have been written here before and will be written again. There is no longer any bullshit to convey, no more crap to explore, no words to be sought. We are simply fucked. No fault but our own. All us. All the time. Always here. Always bad. Not the gorgeous Evan. Us. We're losing track. Surprising? After years of seeing her on the silver screen and television, our interest seemed to hit a high point when she unexpectedly appeared as the queen. The articulate and very intelligent traits of her character, along with the very picturesque and beautiful manner in which she portrayed the part took us from ourselves on more than one occasion. We just could not deny the draw of her exotic, enticing look and demeanor. All in, we were. She appeared here and there week after week and we appreciated every fucking second. We still do in re-watching some of the show's episodes. She was wonderfully well-cast, gorgeous to see, and captivating while speaking with other characters. We have been enthralled for quite some time and that is a part of the issue. She can command our attention and cause the deafening roar of our obsession to flare and pull us from daily life with all haste. The visions take over, we fall off the edge of the world (again), and everything is turned sideways within our minds. Yes, all that shit again. Here. Spoken clearly and to the point. And now the crying. Why? Look at her Gawd those eyes And then the whole cycle begins again as soon as another example of that mathematical enigma crosses our eyesight. The whole fucking thing. Drop, fall, irritable, damaged, depressed, worried, broken. One woman goes strolling on by going about her business and looking like a dream, and we gaze because we just cannot go about life any other way. Gaze. Fall. Beauty like nothing else on this earth. Nothing. Those curves which took us away from any sort of normal life and flushed our ambition down the fucking toilet. What happened? Was it Evan? Galina? Alexis? Who the fuck? How? When did this happen, exactly? Was it the girl at the car wash? Maybe part of it. We've gone over that holy hell enough, however. The server way back a million years ago in the brewery with the fucking pants that we can still see? Hmm... She was an example of the anomaly. We placed her on quite the pedestal back then, but honestly the feelings at that time were not as dire as they seem now. We sat there and admired her for a long while during dinner but never really fell off the same cliff as in recent times. Yes, that girl earned her own essay (a short one, but whatever) and a place within us which will always bring good memories, yet still we ask all the questions over and over, week after week. We cannot see what happened... What may have taken place throughout the many years between then and now which flipped us upside down. The top is on the bottom. Backward. Hmm. The crying stopped but the words still flow. Evan? Nope. Others. She is here because the character struck us and needed to be included as a stark example of wonderful genetics. Her nose alone is worth the price of admission. We sit here even now, and after all of the agonizing, weeping, screaming, analysis, and difficulty without one fucking clue as to the beginning. Mercedes? We've gone over that in spades and for too long. Alessandra? Not her either. Someone. More than one. Many. The girl at the car wash, too. Her breasts and waist, perhaps. The server on that fateful day in Pleasanton. We could not cease the gaze and held it as long as possible as she performed her work. Those curves became burned into us and are still there. Her pants... The manner in which she moved about the room with graceful motions and beautiful features. Yes, after nearly fifteen years that girl still resides in the same space as the server just weeks ago. Pants. Radii. Hair. All of it rolled into one person and able to create this difficulty which is not only ongoing but ever expanding as we see more and dream. There will always be more and that fact is both inescapable and painful. We can do exactly one thing about it in order to try lifting ourselves out of this hole, however we do not wish it. The only avenue available is to stop searching. Stop? Really? Can we? Fuck yes. Unwilling? Fuck yes. The search is ongoing and desperate, just as our thoughts about everything from one day to the next. Desperate. Another word beginning with 'd'. See above if you are still reading. The beginning may not be that important. Others have told us to try moving forward. How? Ignore the visions? How do we extract those which have been within for years? And the images for the last four years? What about the images? Do we trash them and go back to whatever looked good before? How? Too many questions, no answers. For the time being we are going to continue in this vein until something dramatic happens. Or until someone comes along looking similar enough to the Raven and allows us to go over everything we need so badly. That is as unlikely as a winning lottery ticket. Can money buy what we need? Yes, absolutely. Hence the mention of that elusive windfall. We have to explore the inside and continue attempting to understand. So far, very little. We know of the past sightings of those goddesses and the way their shapes struck us to the core, but the why is still empty of information. Could it be the sex? Hmm. The curves and appearance directly relate to that. No question. Disparity and everything which accompanies such a sight But why? Is the sex that important? Is it more than the image? Because it is intimate? Is the image not intimate? Who the fuck knows? The sex is there, always, just as in every single other aspect of life. Do the photos above and below relate more directly to art or sex? Both? Whatever. Too much philosophy in that one. We will not deny the sex -- as that would be impossible -- however the issue is neither. It is a construct. Numbers. Ratios. Fibonacci at the highest level and its most difficult purpose. We will deny nothing. Sex, numbers, beauty, mathematics, desire... Who fucking cares anyway? We sure as fuck are losing ground with the caring. The entry entitled 'Falling Away' was only the beginning of this. Black is approaching at breakneck speed. It will overtake and consume, just as we have become consumed with the never-ending visions which claw at our sanity. The reasoning has been paramount for some time now, but will cease when we decide that the time is at hand to stop everything. All motion. All desire. All of the days and nights dreaming of things which shall not pass our way close enough for the crucial examination we need more than drawing breath. Everything is now dire and dark. Too demanding, too deviant, and far too difficult. Black. All is black. Every essay seems to hold the same damned questions as they go unanswered month after month. Even the long story carries similar imagery as the situations change and relate to such an addiction. And that last word is included in one of the titles. 'The Angel and the Addiction'. Yes, that one. Andrea commanding our senses like nothing else. Everything spewed here was discussed with her and she ended up understanding enough to allow all of it. Anything. Angel. All these years later we are sitting and in damned-near the same position as before meeting her. The differences are time, pressure, and the realization that such an opportunity may not present itself again. We fall over that thought every fucking time. The approaching black seems appropriate considering how much our needs have expanded and increased in importance over such a length of time. Yes, there was Natalie, however that was different. Emotional comfort was the priority at that time. Her physical affection was wonderful and helped to lessen the impact of being far from everything that brought us comfort. And things have worsened even more throughout the past several months. Blackness approaching from every fucking direction. Pointed right at us and closing. And throw in the Raven, too. Fuck, where are we? Where are we going? To the black. As much as the raven has been discussed here, the simple truth is that She jaded us to the point of losing focus. Gone. Any semblance of focus has burned away throughout the years. It is still burning and flying to the wind as ash. We see it. We cry over it. We have lost it. We have lost Her, and along with that beautifully soulful goddess any chance of learning, growing, understanding. She was the fucking pinnacle of our futile life's ambition and the loss is crippling beyond belief. Still. After years of agonizing and much stabbing pain all over our insides the emptiness continues to grow. She represented every facet of our ambition and passion. She was all of it, all of the time. Each second next to Her was above all things in life. There was so much wonder while with Her that we could not accept the passage of time. Those huge, dark eyes looking right through us as if the world was inside. Her long fingers intertwined and caressing until the very last moment of each occasion. She looked and just understood. She did that every fucking time and we melted down into the basics of life itself. As such, the clock spun out of fucking control when we were close to Her vast beauty. She felt the same, only showing support for those numerous times when She was unavailable. Support, messages, hearts, love. Always. She was like Andrea, Juliette, Ellie, and Natalie rolled into the most beautiful package imaginable. We still fall over Her being gone. Still. Ok, we need to get away from the subject before the hands are forced. Art at the highest echelon Radii. Inner, outer, whatever. Why? We are still falling away, moment by moment, and day after miserable day. The routine is so stale that the decay is apparent everywhere we step. All over, and all over us. There seems no escape nor satiation which has the ability to cease such a slide. Remember the Isolated Slide? Still going. No end, no bottom, no slowing. Steady. Sliding down into whatever we are to become. Where is Andrea to take all of the bad away? Gone, just as our ambition. The images show off models in positioning which accentuates the numbers of life and we still search and stare. They will not go away. And then the real thing goes strolling by in the midst of our sad routine and takes away our ability to function. Every fucking time. Every day? No, but often enough to glue our tired hands to the keyboard for hours. Spitting, spewing, throwing our word-missiles in every direction. Wide open. Raw. Painful. Never-ending. We do not see a different path any longer. More images, more sightings, more falling, more words trying to get across the pain and scrambling for the elusive understanding which beamed out of those pairs of eyes. None of that any longer. Nothing. Just sliding and falling away from what we were. And we keep going in this saddened state as if the proverbial tunnel will eventually be lit. We can be lit, however. The staples are always there... Music, alcohol, dying inside. Always there. Just like the isolated slide. That was coupled with Maria and her big, wide, hopeful eyes staring back at us from a place we cannot understand. We will never understand. Her eyes conveyed so much brightness but we were staring at the inner radii and dropping through the floor due to her sheer beauty and mechanics which are nearly unparalleled. The sight of her eyes melted away in favor of our obsession. Why? They are soulful, big, beautiful windows, but we are broken enough to focus upon our endless need to gaze and understand. Nope. Blackness. That is all. And we keep going enough to lead others toward believing that the site outlet and exploration are helpful. An outlet. Again... Nope. We do not agree and the opinion is noted. Unfortunately, we are correct. There is no outlet. The only drive is to fire the endless thought processes out into the world for the benefit of exactly no one. Not even us. We do enjoy the click of the keys but that is all. After building the new interface nearly seven years ago the work has been quite streamlined when compared to the past. That is something. Coupled with the reconfigured archives the site is straightforward to maintain and update. That is also something which has eased the work. The content is another fucking sad story and will not improve. The stories and scathing commentary are here to stay. The routine mentioned above will creep in here more as well. It is killing us, and when combined with the fucking ongoing and ever-increasing obsession, we have no idea how we are functioning from one day to the next. We just keep going, continue the bitching, and fall all over the floor often. Those drunken tirades from years ago taught us nothing other than the back lawn was cold at four in the morning. Dewy, depressed, down. Hopefully they do not return. We have enough going on right now and waking up in the yard will help nothing. The routine is plenty. The obsession is more. That fucking part of us is ruling the roost, as it were. Every Goddamned day we deal with visions and the fall which results from seeing such beauty and then watching them disappear forever. And then more. And more. And then this... Words, knives, alcohol, and the shit mood. We have been trying to find the reasons, but after years of it there are none. The Raven, too. Equally gone. She was a person difficult to describe. We are still trying to find a way to get that beauty across. So far, very little. She was so unique that even with our moderate command of language the battle remains uphill. And as usual, this has become a fucking entry with no cohesion whatsoever. We covered Evan, rolled into the black in which we have become mired, dumped words about the images, and the fluid is next. Right now? Still agonizing over the radii, Raven, routine, rarity, and relishing. Just look. Right fucking there. Just like the Raven. Those elusive lines we cannot understand. They appear all over the place and send us into a terrible tailspin. They are right there despite such exaggerated positioning. She is accentuating that which we constantly seek and displaying the curves which began this fucking downward spiral. Do you see? The compounds? The gorgeous symmetry? Both inner and outer. Every single detail in place and appearing as a very depressing schematic of our damaged brain cells. We just keep looking and seeing and dreaming. Just like with the Raven, we gaze without limit and see those features which rule all aspects of life. She was the example just inches from our wide eyes. How did this become the fucking definition of everything? Look at her. Above. The black lingerie, with hands pulling. Do you see? We do. All of it splayed right fucking there and in one image. She is amazing, but we do not know why. That image is incredible, to say the least. And we cannot display it at full resolution due to the framing. It needs to fit the format, but understand that more detail is not helpful anyway. At least not at this late date. We just stare and try to put things together within the mind and understand why that is so fucking beautiful. She is a person. A model. A photography subject shot and placed there to show off the beauty and dramatic lighting. The image is gorgeous from end to lovely end. From the rear her upper thighs are outlined clearly, outside and inside. The relationship of those lines works together with empty space to define the meaning of life. Dark and light, soft and sharp, inner and outer. All of it, right there. Again, do you see? We see everything, all of the time, both on these depressing pages and out in the real world. Everything, every fucking day. The server from weeks ago looked like the image above, or at least very close. Her pants fit the form so well that nothing was hidden. As she moved around, we saw. We stared. We fucking dreamed and fell. Above, the model is prominently and purposefully shot from the rear. When we gazed at the server from the rear, the brain went into overtime trying to imagine such lingerie underneath. Was it the sexual nature of those curves? Or was it simply the math? We were dying to measure and define the numbers which make up the shape. Enough of those elusive values and we could create a database of information along with images of each subject and possibly understand where the numbers go before a woman becomes either an anomaly or unattractive. The likelihood of that happening is about the same as growing wings and flying above the world. Fuck. That was such a process to begin and organize. We went through holy Hell trying to get it going and then months later shut it down before one contact was made. Yes, the subject has been mentioned before, however the issues now are directly related to that fucking unavailability. Now we simply wallow from one moment to the next due to the fucked up realization that the project was nothing and destined to fail. The inquiries were strange, and our requests far too personal for anyone to respond. Not one message. Nothing. Wrong? Right? Neither? Fuck. We tried out of desperation and the entire works was killed not long after. The idea seemed plausible but in the end hurt us badly. We are still there, wallowing, crying, in pain every day, and dreaming of a world in which such an endeavor could be acceptable. Nope. Never. We are too deviant and fucked up for anything so wondrous to take place. Our exploration will never continue, and like the fluid mentioned below that fact has the ability to end us. We are damaged beyond words over the issues and desires. Damaged. And the Raven knew it. She detected our pain without words. Eyes. Hands. Her huge heart and unending compassion. Understanding. Loving glances, caring hands, and the fucking eyes over which we still agonize after years of missing her company. Years. And here we sit in exactly the same position and carrying the same fucking curvy demons. Some of them are here on this page. Again... Do you see? Everything is right there and we will never know why. Damage. Dead. Pain. Yearning. Nothing. Fuck. Just... Fuck. The same words over and over and over. Every day, week, month, year. The same. We just keep going and the work helps us not. Nothing. Why? No answer. Still nothing after all these years and thousands of words. Questions. Fucking nothing. No insight, no hope, and little inclination to continue. Black. Anything? Anyone? Nope. Fuck no. Nothing and no one. We are all the way in with no way out and back to a sense of normalcy, lacking ideas, empty of positives, and ready to shut down completely. Close. We are fucking close. And then there is the fluid. God help us. The end of all things The fluid may kill us. We love it and we hate it equally and at differing times. The fluid is the primary reason behind much destructive behavior, rash decisions, and the catalyst which brought forth hundreds of days both in front of this editor and out in the world with heads full of hellish worry and pain. Desire, burning inside and with zero chance of outlet. Desire removing options, dictating movements, pressing the brainpower into the smallest of spaces and narrowing our vision to one fine point. The fluid brings thoughts of deviant searching despite futile effort. The fucking fluid. Before those moments? Overwhelming need and the most powerful draw on earth. After those moments? Nothing. Flat. Dead. In need of isolation and understanding. The wonder and excitement disappears and leaves us empty of everything. Days pass, we dream again, and the pressure builds once more. Bad, all bad. The temporary fix does nothing in the long run. Watching from a detached position offers nothing, either. We sit and dream of what is happening, however the direction means we are empty of the same. Confusing? This is supposed to be as such. Ambiguous, unclear, toward the oblique. All the way. We will not lead readers from a to b to c. Follow along, for fuck's sake. Effort. The watching causes further damage for two reasons: One, we are not involved, and two, the perspective is such that the enticement runs out of control. And then we fall again. There is always the idea of a temporary escape, though. But that ends in even worse feelings of emptiness and loneliness. The up disappears as always, and after such a situation we are a combination of anger, depression, and pain. Done. Gone. Unhappy. Broken. Fucked. Nothing. Bad. All fucking bad and no satiation whatsoever. This may kill us with all haste. The thoughts and dreams become overwhelming and press us toward a reckless run. Dangerous. Dreaming. Yearning. Empty. Nothing. Fuck. The fluid is deadly. But production will not cease, no matter our dire wishes. The fluid has little to do with the gorgeous creature pictured upon this entry. It is all us. It is unending in the draw, unrelenting in the power, and unreal to consider as a part of life. We need to get rid of it but there is nothing which can be done in these late days. Not a fucking thing. We just have to fucking live with it. Drain. Nope. The simple fact is that the words here do nothing when held against the power the fluid holds over our lives. All we can do is throw this shit to the wind and then look at it. The words. Once published, they sit there for all time, or at least as long as we hold sway over the domain ownership. That should be funny. Not funny. The fluid is in charge, along with all mechanisms related to production and flow. We are helpless. Honestly. Another seven to ten days, another set of words tossed to the screen, and another dream squashed just like a fucking fly on a windshield. We just keep going, treading that horrible water, and awaiting the next incident which will either kill us or heal us for all time. Either seems fine, but the sinking feeling is that the former is going to take us away. The Fantasy, the Eden, the Falling, the Air, the Rope, the Misery... Add them up and you shall see that things are not good. Not in the least. We have dropped so fucking far that the upside is no longer visible. We cannot see straight for the desire. The Raven left us here -- alone, yearning, needing, wanting -- and the fluid sits there awaiting something. A change. An exit. A turn. Something other than the path we have created throughout these many years. But nothing is there. No hope. No drive. No caring. And damned little which has the power to keep us from the pit of despair where we have belonged and denied for so many fucking years. The fucking Goddamned fluid over which we have no control and through which we cannot see. Well, guess what? Fuck that fluid. Fuck us. Fuck you. Fuck it all. Expect the worst switch to flip. Coming soon to a website near you. Don't like it? Blame the fluid. Take it away. Please. The dam will break. When it does, we will be upon the rocks below awaiting the flood and the blood. The unpleasant is about to begin." Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
Evan, the Black, and the Deadly Fluid Mature content No. 79 Published March 10th, 2019 6:10am pdt read ( words) Past entries "She is so fucking beautiful that looking upon her face is pain. Eyes, nose, eyebrows, everything. Ever since that woman hit the screen during her young years we have seen her pop up here and there, causing yet a different type of fall. We are there now due to the lovely vision of Sophie Ann LeClerc. Yes, the fucking vampire queen Evan portrayed years ago. The costuming, her demeanor and confidence, and that fucking pair of eyes which will never stop yelling at us. All of it. She took that role and played it well, however to look at her face with any number of expressions as she interacted with others takes us on a flight which always crashes. The beauty is just too much. She bends the numbers with her features and leaves us in a pile of desire. We look, we fall, just like so many times before. The only glaring upside is that she is an actor and as such we shall never look upon her gorgeousness in person. Way the fuck out of reach. That is good and bad. Mostly bad. Yep. All we can do is sit here and dream of such timeless beauty. Dream. Just like with all of the others. Dreams. Smashed. Smashing. Whiskey? Another type of smashed. Drunk. Tipsy. Wordsy. Handsy? Nope... Cannot. Nothing there anymore. All gone. And then those stupid fucking one- and two-word sentences. Sloppy. Whatever. Suck it. The thoughts flow faster than fingers on the keyboard and the result is a haphazard and screwy paragraph. Six years of English composition now reduced to fleeting moments and a lack of clarity. Part of it is the beauty. Her beauty. Evan. Why? She is just a person. A well-known person, certainly, but still one of note and enough to drive us insane upon staring. There is no end to it. And the sultry nature of that role pushes her even further up. The character is extremely intelligent, well-spoken, powerful, and so very beautiful. Again... No end to it. She is unreal. We have watched over and over for years and sat in awe of the combination. Other films and roles have displayed and clearly demonstrated Evan's vast command of her craft. She is quite alluring to see and every single character played is effective in pulling her audience toward that elusive suspension of disbelief. Ms. LeClerc is no different. And perhaps the fact that her character is a vampire adds to the exotic nature of her appearance. Heh. Unreal Evan is a woman for whom we have the utmost respect. Yes, her beauty is very unique and commands our attention at times, but the fact remains she is accomplished, successful, and dripping with talent. She is a person, as we have stated here about any number of women in the past, and that means our fucked up obsession and deviant eyesight takes a back seat to the same. We are out here... floating, flying, falling, fucked... and that is of no fault save for our own. We have gone over this, but the need to state it within each fucking entry which is not part of a larger story takes over. That is important, especially considering the depth of our deranged desires. Lots of words beginning with the letter 'd'. How about another? Depression. Suck it. Fuck it. Throw it at the wall. Roll that word around the tongue a bit as if it is a cordial. Swill it. Swirl it. Taste it. Swallow. Wait for the effects. Drunk. Depressed. Down. Deranged. Derailed. Driven, despite the rest. We keep going. The words flow like a river of shit down an abandoned slope leading nowhere. They overpower the banks and make a terrible mess. They carry so much disdain that we cannot even head in such a direction here. All of the terms have found the bottom already and left us empty. Evan. Beauty. Gorgeous. Unreal. Look at the blood and the unbelievably sexy nature of her with it slathered all over her lovely face. And the fangs. Puncture us. Please. Kill. Drink. Just let us see it happen before we lose sight. Let it fucking flow out of us as we lose consciousness. Do it. Bite, suck, drain. We will relish and love every fucking second. Oh yes, and fuck us at the same time. Too much? This will get worse, so buckle the fuck up. Or have we lost that sight already? Each little amplification of the female form which takes place within us upon seeing something which defines our issues will cause another drop, and said drops are cumulative. Add them from the last several years and one can imagine the amount of difficulty inherent in such damaging circumstances. Not good. Just... Not good at all. Evan is not at fault. Not by a damned sight. We always do it to ourselves. Those words have been written here before and will be written again. There is no longer any bullshit to convey, no more crap to explore, no words to be sought. We are simply fucked. No fault but our own. All us. All the time. Always here. Always bad. Not the gorgeous Evan. Us. We're losing track. Surprising? After years of seeing her on the silver screen and television, our interest seemed to hit a high point when she unexpectedly appeared as the queen. The articulate and very intelligent traits of her character, along with the very picturesque and beautiful manner in which she portrayed the part took us from ourselves on more than one occasion. We just could not deny the draw of her exotic, enticing look and demeanor. All in, we were. She appeared here and there week after week and we appreciated every fucking second. We still do in re-watching some of the show's episodes. She was wonderfully well-cast, gorgeous to see, and captivating while speaking with other characters. We have been enthralled for quite some time and that is a part of the issue. She can command our attention and cause the deafening roar of our obsession to flare and pull us from daily life with all haste. The visions take over, we fall off the edge of the world (again), and everything is turned sideways within our minds. Yes, all that shit again. Here. Spoken clearly and to the point. And now the crying. Why? Look at her Gawd those eyes And then the whole cycle begins again as soon as another example of that mathematical enigma crosses our eyesight. The whole fucking thing. Drop, fall, irritable, damaged, depressed, worried, broken. One woman goes strolling on by going about her business and looking like a dream, and we gaze because we just cannot go about life any other way. Gaze. Fall. Beauty like nothing else on this earth. Nothing. Those curves which took us away from any sort of normal life and flushed our ambition down the fucking toilet. What happened? Was it Evan? Galina? Alexis? Who the fuck? How? When did this happen, exactly? Was it the girl at the car wash? Maybe part of it. We've gone over that holy hell enough, however. The server way back a million years ago in the brewery with the fucking pants that we can still see? Hmm... She was an example of the anomaly. We placed her on quite the pedestal back then, but honestly the feelings at that time were not as dire as they seem now. We sat there and admired her for a long while during dinner but never really fell off the same cliff as in recent times. Yes, that girl earned her own essay (a short one, but whatever) and a place within us which will always bring good memories, yet still we ask all the questions over and over, week after week. We cannot see what happened... What may have taken place throughout the many years between then and now which flipped us upside down. The top is on the bottom. Backward. Hmm. The crying stopped but the words still flow. Evan? Nope. Others. She is here because the character struck us and needed to be included as a stark example of wonderful genetics. Her nose alone is worth the price of admission. We sit here even now, and after all of the agonizing, weeping, screaming, analysis, and difficulty without one fucking clue as to the beginning. Mercedes? We've gone over that in spades and for too long. Alessandra? Not her either. Someone. More than one. Many. The girl at the car wash, too. Her breasts and waist, perhaps. The server on that fateful day in Pleasanton. We could not cease the gaze and held it as long as possible as she performed her work. Those curves became burned into us and are still there. Her pants... The manner in which she moved about the room with graceful motions and beautiful features. Yes, after nearly fifteen years that girl still resides in the same space as the server just weeks ago. Pants. Radii. Hair. All of it rolled into one person and able to create this difficulty which is not only ongoing but ever expanding as we see more and dream. There will always be more and that fact is both inescapable and painful. We can do exactly one thing about it in order to try lifting ourselves out of this hole, however we do not wish it. The only avenue available is to stop searching. Stop? Really? Can we? Fuck yes. Unwilling? Fuck yes. The search is ongoing and desperate, just as our thoughts about everything from one day to the next. Desperate. Another word beginning with 'd'. See above if you are still reading. The beginning may not be that important. Others have told us to try moving forward. How? Ignore the visions? How do we extract those which have been within for years? And the images for the last four years? What about the images? Do we trash them and go back to whatever looked good before? How? Too many questions, no answers. For the time being we are going to continue in this vein until something dramatic happens. Or until someone comes along looking similar enough to the Raven and allows us to go over everything we need so badly. That is as unlikely as a winning lottery ticket. Can money buy what we need? Yes, absolutely. Hence the mention of that elusive windfall. We have to explore the inside and continue attempting to understand. So far, very little. We know of the past sightings of those goddesses and the way their shapes struck us to the core, but the why is still empty of information. Could it be the sex? Hmm. The curves and appearance directly relate to that. No question. Disparity and everything which accompanies such a sight But why? Is the sex that important? Is it more than the image? Because it is intimate? Is the image not intimate? Who the fuck knows? The sex is there, always, just as in every single other aspect of life. Do the photos above and below relate more directly to art or sex? Both? Whatever. Too much philosophy in that one. We will not deny the sex -- as that would be impossible -- however the issue is neither. It is a construct. Numbers. Ratios. Fibonacci at the highest level and its most difficult purpose. We will deny nothing. Sex, numbers, beauty, mathematics, desire... Who fucking cares anyway? We sure as fuck are losing ground with the caring. The entry entitled 'Falling Away' was only the beginning of this. Black is approaching at breakneck speed. It will overtake and consume, just as we have become consumed with the never-ending visions which claw at our sanity. The reasoning has been paramount for some time now, but will cease when we decide that the time is at hand to stop everything. All motion. All desire. All of the days and nights dreaming of things which shall not pass our way close enough for the crucial examination we need more than drawing breath. Everything is now dire and dark. Too demanding, too deviant, and far too difficult. Black. All is black. Every essay seems to hold the same damned questions as they go unanswered month after month. Even the long story carries similar imagery as the situations change and relate to such an addiction. And that last word is included in one of the titles. 'The Angel and the Addiction'. Yes, that one. Andrea commanding our senses like nothing else. Everything spewed here was discussed with her and she ended up understanding enough to allow all of it. Anything. Angel. All these years later we are sitting and in damned-near the same position as before meeting her. The differences are time, pressure, and the realization that such an opportunity may not present itself again. We fall over that thought every fucking time. The approaching black seems appropriate considering how much our needs have expanded and increased in importance over such a length of time. Yes, there was Natalie, however that was different. Emotional comfort was the priority at that time. Her physical affection was wonderful and helped to lessen the impact of being far from everything that brought us comfort. And things have worsened even more throughout the past several months. Blackness approaching from every fucking direction. Pointed right at us and closing. And throw in the Raven, too. Fuck, where are we? Where are we going? To the black. As much as the raven has been discussed here, the simple truth is that She jaded us to the point of losing focus. Gone. Any semblance of focus has burned away throughout the years. It is still burning and flying to the wind as ash. We see it. We cry over it. We have lost it. We have lost Her, and along with that beautifully soulful goddess any chance of learning, growing, understanding. She was the fucking pinnacle of our futile life's ambition and the loss is crippling beyond belief. Still. After years of agonizing and much stabbing pain all over our insides the emptiness continues to grow. She represented every facet of our ambition and passion. She was all of it, all of the time. Each second next to Her was above all things in life. There was so much wonder while with Her that we could not accept the passage of time. Those huge, dark eyes looking right through us as if the world was inside. Her long fingers intertwined and caressing until the very last moment of each occasion. She looked and just understood. She did that every fucking time and we melted down into the basics of life itself. As such, the clock spun out of fucking control when we were close to Her vast beauty. She felt the same, only showing support for those numerous times when She was unavailable. Support, messages, hearts, love. Always. She was like Andrea, Juliette, Ellie, and Natalie rolled into the most beautiful package imaginable. We still fall over Her being gone. Still. Ok, we need to get away from the subject before the hands are forced. Art at the highest echelon Radii. Inner, outer, whatever. Why? We are still falling away, moment by moment, and day after miserable day. The routine is so stale that the decay is apparent everywhere we step. All over, and all over us. There seems no escape nor satiation which has the ability to cease such a slide. Remember the Isolated Slide? Still going. No end, no bottom, no slowing. Steady. Sliding down into whatever we are to become. Where is Andrea to take all of the bad away? Gone, just as our ambition. The images show off models in positioning which accentuates the numbers of life and we still search and stare. They will not go away. And then the real thing goes strolling by in the midst of our sad routine and takes away our ability to function. Every fucking time. Every day? No, but often enough to glue our tired hands to the keyboard for hours. Spitting, spewing, throwing our word-missiles in every direction. Wide open. Raw. Painful. Never-ending. We do not see a different path any longer. More images, more sightings, more falling, more words trying to get across the pain and scrambling for the elusive understanding which beamed out of those pairs of eyes. None of that any longer. Nothing. Just sliding and falling away from what we were. And we keep going in this saddened state as if the proverbial tunnel will eventually be lit. We can be lit, however. The staples are always there... Music, alcohol, dying inside. Always there. Just like the isolated slide. That was coupled with Maria and her big, wide, hopeful eyes staring back at us from a place we cannot understand. We will never understand. Her eyes conveyed so much brightness but we were staring at the inner radii and dropping through the floor due to her sheer beauty and mechanics which are nearly unparalleled. The sight of her eyes melted away in favor of our obsession. Why? They are soulful, big, beautiful windows, but we are broken enough to focus upon our endless need to gaze and understand. Nope. Blackness. That is all. And we keep going enough to lead others toward believing that the site outlet and exploration are helpful. An outlet. Again... Nope. We do not agree and the opinion is noted. Unfortunately, we are correct. There is no outlet. The only drive is to fire the endless thought processes out into the world for the benefit of exactly no one. Not even us. We do enjoy the click of the keys but that is all. After building the new interface nearly seven years ago the work has been quite streamlined when compared to the past. That is something. Coupled with the reconfigured archives the site is straightforward to maintain and update. That is also something which has eased the work. The content is another fucking sad story and will not improve. The stories and scathing commentary are here to stay. The routine mentioned above will creep in here more as well. It is killing us, and when combined with the fucking ongoing and ever-increasing obsession, we have no idea how we are functioning from one day to the next. We just keep going, continue the bitching, and fall all over the floor often. Those drunken tirades from years ago taught us nothing other than the back lawn was cold at four in the morning. Dewy, depressed, down. Hopefully they do not return. We have enough going on right now and waking up in the yard will help nothing. The routine is plenty. The obsession is more. That fucking part of us is ruling the roost, as it were. Every Goddamned day we deal with visions and the fall which results from seeing such beauty and then watching them disappear forever. And then more. And more. And then this... Words, knives, alcohol, and the shit mood. We have been trying to find the reasons, but after years of it there are none. The Raven, too. Equally gone. She was a person difficult to describe. We are still trying to find a way to get that beauty across. So far, very little. She was so unique that even with our moderate command of language the battle remains uphill. And as usual, this has become a fucking entry with no cohesion whatsoever. We covered Evan, rolled into the black in which we have become mired, dumped words about the images, and the fluid is next. Right now? Still agonizing over the radii, Raven, routine, rarity, and relishing. Just look. Right fucking there. Just like the Raven. Those elusive lines we cannot understand. They appear all over the place and send us into a terrible tailspin. They are right there despite such exaggerated positioning. She is accentuating that which we constantly seek and displaying the curves which began this fucking downward spiral. Do you see? The compounds? The gorgeous symmetry? Both inner and outer. Every single detail in place and appearing as a very depressing schematic of our damaged brain cells. We just keep looking and seeing and dreaming. Just like with the Raven, we gaze without limit and see those features which rule all aspects of life. She was the example just inches from our wide eyes. How did this become the fucking definition of everything? Look at her. Above. The black lingerie, with hands pulling. Do you see? We do. All of it splayed right fucking there and in one image. She is amazing, but we do not know why. That image is incredible, to say the least. And we cannot display it at full resolution due to the framing. It needs to fit the format, but understand that more detail is not helpful anyway. At least not at this late date. We just stare and try to put things together within the mind and understand why that is so fucking beautiful. She is a person. A model. A photography subject shot and placed there to show off the beauty and dramatic lighting. The image is gorgeous from end to lovely end. From the rear her upper thighs are outlined clearly, outside and inside. The relationship of those lines works together with empty space to define the meaning of life. Dark and light, soft and sharp, inner and outer. All of it, right there. Again, do you see? We see everything, all of the time, both on these depressing pages and out in the real world. Everything, every fucking day. The server from weeks ago looked like the image above, or at least very close. Her pants fit the form so well that nothing was hidden. As she moved around, we saw. We stared. We fucking dreamed and fell. Above, the model is prominently and purposefully shot from the rear. When we gazed at the server from the rear, the brain went into overtime trying to imagine such lingerie underneath. Was it the sexual nature of those curves? Or was it simply the math? We were dying to measure and define the numbers which make up the shape. Enough of those elusive values and we could create a database of information along with images of each subject and possibly understand where the numbers go before a woman becomes either an anomaly or unattractive. The likelihood of that happening is about the same as growing wings and flying above the world. Fuck. That was such a process to begin and organize. We went through holy Hell trying to get it going and then months later shut it down before one contact was made. Yes, the subject has been mentioned before, however the issues now are directly related to that fucking unavailability. Now we simply wallow from one moment to the next due to the fucked up realization that the project was nothing and destined to fail. The inquiries were strange, and our requests far too personal for anyone to respond. Not one message. Nothing. Wrong? Right? Neither? Fuck. We tried out of desperation and the entire works was killed not long after. The idea seemed plausible but in the end hurt us badly. We are still there, wallowing, crying, in pain every day, and dreaming of a world in which such an endeavor could be acceptable. Nope. Never. We are too deviant and fucked up for anything so wondrous to take place. Our exploration will never continue, and like the fluid mentioned below that fact has the ability to end us. We are damaged beyond words over the issues and desires. Damaged. And the Raven knew it. She detected our pain without words. Eyes. Hands. Her huge heart and unending compassion. Understanding. Loving glances, caring hands, and the fucking eyes over which we still agonize after years of missing her company. Years. And here we sit in exactly the same position and carrying the same fucking curvy demons. Some of them are here on this page. Again... Do you see? Everything is right there and we will never know why. Damage. Dead. Pain. Yearning. Nothing. Fuck. Just... Fuck. The same words over and over and over. Every day, week, month, year. The same. We just keep going and the work helps us not. Nothing. Why? No answer. Still nothing after all these years and thousands of words. Questions. Fucking nothing. No insight, no hope, and little inclination to continue. Black. Anything? Anyone? Nope. Fuck no. Nothing and no one. We are all the way in with no way out and back to a sense of normalcy, lacking ideas, empty of positives, and ready to shut down completely. Close. We are fucking close. And then there is the fluid. God help us. The end of all things The fluid may kill us. We love it and we hate it equally and at differing times. The fluid is the primary reason behind much destructive behavior, rash decisions, and the catalyst which brought forth hundreds of days both in front of this editor and out in the world with heads full of hellish worry and pain. Desire, burning inside and with zero chance of outlet. Desire removing options, dictating movements, pressing the brainpower into the smallest of spaces and narrowing our vision to one fine point. The fluid brings thoughts of deviant searching despite futile effort. The fucking fluid. Before those moments? Overwhelming need and the most powerful draw on earth. After those moments? Nothing. Flat. Dead. In need of isolation and understanding. The wonder and excitement disappears and leaves us empty of everything. Days pass, we dream again, and the pressure builds once more. Bad, all bad. The temporary fix does nothing in the long run. Watching from a detached position offers nothing, either. We sit and dream of what is happening, however the direction means we are empty of the same. Confusing? This is supposed to be as such. Ambiguous, unclear, toward the oblique. All the way. We will not lead readers from a to b to c. Follow along, for fuck's sake. Effort. The watching causes further damage for two reasons: One, we are not involved, and two, the perspective is such that the enticement runs out of control. And then we fall again. There is always the idea of a temporary escape, though. But that ends in even worse feelings of emptiness and loneliness. The up disappears as always, and after such a situation we are a combination of anger, depression, and pain. Done. Gone. Unhappy. Broken. Fucked. Nothing. Bad. All fucking bad and no satiation whatsoever. This may kill us with all haste. The thoughts and dreams become overwhelming and press us toward a reckless run. Dangerous. Dreaming. Yearning. Empty. Nothing. Fuck. The fluid is deadly. But production will not cease, no matter our dire wishes. The fluid has little to do with the gorgeous creature pictured upon this entry. It is all us. It is unending in the draw, unrelenting in the power, and unreal to consider as a part of life. We need to get rid of it but there is nothing which can be done in these late days. Not a fucking thing. We just have to fucking live with it. Drain. Nope. The simple fact is that the words here do nothing when held against the power the fluid holds over our lives. All we can do is throw this shit to the wind and then look at it. The words. Once published, they sit there for all time, or at least as long as we hold sway over the domain ownership. That should be funny. Not funny. The fluid is in charge, along with all mechanisms related to production and flow. We are helpless. Honestly. Another seven to ten days, another set of words tossed to the screen, and another dream squashed just like a fucking fly on a windshield. We just keep going, treading that horrible water, and awaiting the next incident which will either kill us or heal us for all time. Either seems fine, but the sinking feeling is that the former is going to take us away. The Fantasy, the Eden, the Falling, the Air, the Rope, the Misery... Add them up and you shall see that things are not good. Not in the least. We have dropped so fucking far that the upside is no longer visible. We cannot see straight for the desire. The Raven left us here -- alone, yearning, needing, wanting -- and the fluid sits there awaiting something. A change. An exit. A turn. Something other than the path we have created throughout these many years. But nothing is there. No hope. No drive. No caring. And damned little which has the power to keep us from the pit of despair where we have belonged and denied for so many fucking years. The fucking Goddamned fluid over which we have no control and through which we cannot see. Well, guess what? Fuck that fluid. Fuck us. Fuck you. Fuck it all. Expect the worst switch to flip. Coming soon to a website near you. Don't like it? Blame the fluid. Take it away. Please. The dam will break. When it does, we will be upon the rocks below awaiting the flood and the blood. The unpleasant is about to begin."
Evan, the Black, and the Deadly Fluid
Mature content No. 79 Published March 10th, 2019 6:10am pdt read ( words) Past entries
"She is so fucking beautiful that looking upon her face is pain. Eyes, nose, eyebrows, everything. Ever since that woman hit the screen during her young years we have seen her pop up here and there, causing yet a different type of fall. We are there now due to the lovely vision of Sophie Ann LeClerc. Yes, the fucking vampire queen Evan portrayed years ago. The costuming, her demeanor and confidence, and that fucking pair of eyes which will never stop yelling at us. All of it. She took that role and played it well, however to look at her face with any number of expressions as she interacted with others takes us on a flight which always crashes. The beauty is just too much. She bends the numbers with her features and leaves us in a pile of desire. We look, we fall, just like so many times before. The only glaring upside is that she is an actor and as such we shall never look upon her gorgeousness in person. Way the fuck out of reach. That is good and bad. Mostly bad. Yep. All we can do is sit here and dream of such timeless beauty. Dream. Just like with all of the others. Dreams. Smashed. Smashing. Whiskey? Another type of smashed. Drunk. Tipsy. Wordsy. Handsy? Nope... Cannot. Nothing there anymore. All gone. And then those stupid fucking one- and two-word sentences. Sloppy. Whatever. Suck it. The thoughts flow faster than fingers on the keyboard and the result is a haphazard and screwy paragraph. Six years of English composition now reduced to fleeting moments and a lack of clarity. Part of it is the beauty. Her beauty. Evan. Why? She is just a person. A well-known person, certainly, but still one of note and enough to drive us insane upon staring. There is no end to it. And the sultry nature of that role pushes her even further up. The character is extremely intelligent, well-spoken, powerful, and so very beautiful. Again... No end to it. She is unreal. We have watched over and over for years and sat in awe of the combination. Other films and roles have displayed and clearly demonstrated Evan's vast command of her craft. She is quite alluring to see and every single character played is effective in pulling her audience toward that elusive suspension of disbelief. Ms. LeClerc is no different. And perhaps the fact that her character is a vampire adds to the exotic nature of her appearance. Heh.
Unreal
Evan is a woman for whom we have the utmost respect. Yes, her beauty is very unique and commands our attention at times, but the fact remains she is accomplished, successful, and dripping with talent. She is a person, as we have stated here about any number of women in the past, and that means our fucked up obsession and deviant eyesight takes a back seat to the same. We are out here... floating, flying, falling, fucked... and that is of no fault save for our own. We have gone over this, but the need to state it within each fucking entry which is not part of a larger story takes over. That is important, especially considering the depth of our deranged desires. Lots of words beginning with the letter 'd'. How about another? Depression. Suck it. Fuck it. Throw it at the wall. Roll that word around the tongue a bit as if it is a cordial. Swill it. Swirl it. Taste it. Swallow. Wait for the effects. Drunk. Depressed. Down. Deranged. Derailed. Driven, despite the rest. We keep going. The words flow like a river of shit down an abandoned slope leading nowhere. They overpower the banks and make a terrible mess. They carry so much disdain that we cannot even head in such a direction here. All of the terms have found the bottom already and left us empty. Evan. Beauty. Gorgeous. Unreal. Look at the blood and the unbelievably sexy nature of her with it slathered all over her lovely face. And the fangs. Puncture us. Please. Kill. Drink. Just let us see it happen before we lose sight. Let it fucking flow out of us as we lose consciousness. Do it. Bite, suck, drain. We will relish and love every fucking second. Oh yes, and fuck us at the same time. Too much? This will get worse, so buckle the fuck up. Or have we lost that sight already? Each little amplification of the female form which takes place within us upon seeing something which defines our issues will cause another drop, and said drops are cumulative. Add them from the last several years and one can imagine the amount of difficulty inherent in such damaging circumstances. Not good. Just... Not good at all. Evan is not at fault. Not by a damned sight. We always do it to ourselves. Those words have been written here before and will be written again. There is no longer any bullshit to convey, no more crap to explore, no words to be sought. We are simply fucked. No fault but our own. All us. All the time. Always here. Always bad. Not the gorgeous Evan. Us. We're losing track. Surprising? After years of seeing her on the silver screen and television, our interest seemed to hit a high point when she unexpectedly appeared as the queen. The articulate and very intelligent traits of her character, along with the very picturesque and beautiful manner in which she portrayed the part took us from ourselves on more than one occasion. We just could not deny the draw of her exotic, enticing look and demeanor. All in, we were. She appeared here and there week after week and we appreciated every fucking second. We still do in re-watching some of the show's episodes. She was wonderfully well-cast, gorgeous to see, and captivating while speaking with other characters. We have been enthralled for quite some time and that is a part of the issue. She can command our attention and cause the deafening roar of our obsession to flare and pull us from daily life with all haste. The visions take over, we fall off the edge of the world (again), and everything is turned sideways within our minds. Yes, all that shit again. Here. Spoken clearly and to the point. And now the crying. Why?
Look at her
Gawd those eyes
And then the whole cycle begins again as soon as another example of that mathematical enigma crosses our eyesight. The whole fucking thing. Drop, fall, irritable, damaged, depressed, worried, broken. One woman goes strolling on by going about her business and looking like a dream, and we gaze because we just cannot go about life any other way. Gaze. Fall. Beauty like nothing else on this earth. Nothing. Those curves which took us away from any sort of normal life and flushed our ambition down the fucking toilet. What happened? Was it Evan? Galina? Alexis? Who the fuck? How? When did this happen, exactly? Was it the girl at the car wash? Maybe part of it. We've gone over that holy hell enough, however. The server way back a million years ago in the brewery with the fucking pants that we can still see? Hmm... She was an example of the anomaly. We placed her on quite the pedestal back then, but honestly the feelings at that time were not as dire as they seem now. We sat there and admired her for a long while during dinner but never really fell off the same cliff as in recent times. Yes, that girl earned her own essay (a short one, but whatever) and a place within us which will always bring good memories, yet still we ask all the questions over and over, week after week. We cannot see what happened... What may have taken place throughout the many years between then and now which flipped us upside down. The top is on the bottom. Backward. Hmm. The crying stopped but the words still flow. Evan? Nope. Others. She is here because the character struck us and needed to be included as a stark example of wonderful genetics. Her nose alone is worth the price of admission. We sit here even now, and after all of the agonizing, weeping, screaming, analysis, and difficulty without one fucking clue as to the beginning. Mercedes? We've gone over that in spades and for too long. Alessandra? Not her either. Someone. More than one. Many. The girl at the car wash, too. Her breasts and waist, perhaps. The server on that fateful day in Pleasanton. We could not cease the gaze and held it as long as possible as she performed her work. Those curves became burned into us and are still there. Her pants... The manner in which she moved about the room with graceful motions and beautiful features. Yes, after nearly fifteen years that girl still resides in the same space as the server just weeks ago. Pants. Radii. Hair. All of it rolled into one person and able to create this difficulty which is not only ongoing but ever expanding as we see more and dream. There will always be more and that fact is both inescapable and painful. We can do exactly one thing about it in order to try lifting ourselves out of this hole, however we do not wish it. The only avenue available is to stop searching. Stop? Really? Can we? Fuck yes. Unwilling? Fuck yes. The search is ongoing and desperate, just as our thoughts about everything from one day to the next. Desperate. Another word beginning with 'd'. See above if you are still reading. The beginning may not be that important. Others have told us to try moving forward. How? Ignore the visions? How do we extract those which have been within for years? And the images for the last four years? What about the images? Do we trash them and go back to whatever looked good before? How? Too many questions, no answers. For the time being we are going to continue in this vein until something dramatic happens. Or until someone comes along looking similar enough to the Raven and allows us to go over everything we need so badly. That is as unlikely as a winning lottery ticket. Can money buy what we need? Yes, absolutely. Hence the mention of that elusive windfall. We have to explore the inside and continue attempting to understand. So far, very little. We know of the past sightings of those goddesses and the way their shapes struck us to the core, but the why is still empty of information. Could it be the sex? Hmm. The curves and appearance directly relate to that. No question.
Disparity and everything which accompanies such a sight
But why? Is the sex that important? Is it more than the image? Because it is intimate? Is the image not intimate? Who the fuck knows? The sex is there, always, just as in every single other aspect of life. Do the photos above and below relate more directly to art or sex? Both? Whatever. Too much philosophy in that one. We will not deny the sex -- as that would be impossible -- however the issue is neither. It is a construct. Numbers. Ratios. Fibonacci at the highest level and its most difficult purpose. We will deny nothing. Sex, numbers, beauty, mathematics, desire... Who fucking cares anyway? We sure as fuck are losing ground with the caring. The entry entitled 'Falling Away' was only the beginning of this. Black is approaching at breakneck speed. It will overtake and consume, just as we have become consumed with the never-ending visions which claw at our sanity. The reasoning has been paramount for some time now, but will cease when we decide that the time is at hand to stop everything. All motion. All desire. All of the days and nights dreaming of things which shall not pass our way close enough for the crucial examination we need more than drawing breath. Everything is now dire and dark. Too demanding, too deviant, and far too difficult. Black. All is black. Every essay seems to hold the same damned questions as they go unanswered month after month. Even the long story carries similar imagery as the situations change and relate to such an addiction. And that last word is included in one of the titles. 'The Angel and the Addiction'. Yes, that one. Andrea commanding our senses like nothing else. Everything spewed here was discussed with her and she ended up understanding enough to allow all of it. Anything. Angel. All these years later we are sitting and in damned-near the same position as before meeting her. The differences are time, pressure, and the realization that such an opportunity may not present itself again. We fall over that thought every fucking time. The approaching black seems appropriate considering how much our needs have expanded and increased in importance over such a length of time. Yes, there was Natalie, however that was different. Emotional comfort was the priority at that time. Her physical affection was wonderful and helped to lessen the impact of being far from everything that brought us comfort. And things have worsened even more throughout the past several months. Blackness approaching from every fucking direction. Pointed right at us and closing. And throw in the Raven, too. Fuck, where are we? Where are we going? To the black. As much as the raven has been discussed here, the simple truth is that She jaded us to the point of losing focus. Gone. Any semblance of focus has burned away throughout the years. It is still burning and flying to the wind as ash. We see it. We cry over it. We have lost it. We have lost Her, and along with that beautifully soulful goddess any chance of learning, growing, understanding. She was the fucking pinnacle of our futile life's ambition and the loss is crippling beyond belief. Still. After years of agonizing and much stabbing pain all over our insides the emptiness continues to grow. She represented every facet of our ambition and passion. She was all of it, all of the time. Each second next to Her was above all things in life. There was so much wonder while with Her that we could not accept the passage of time. Those huge, dark eyes looking right through us as if the world was inside. Her long fingers intertwined and caressing until the very last moment of each occasion. She looked and just understood. She did that every fucking time and we melted down into the basics of life itself. As such, the clock spun out of fucking control when we were close to Her vast beauty. She felt the same, only showing support for those numerous times when She was unavailable. Support, messages, hearts, love. Always. She was like Andrea, Juliette, Ellie, and Natalie rolled into the most beautiful package imaginable. We still fall over Her being gone. Still. Ok, we need to get away from the subject before the hands are forced.
Art at the highest echelon
Radii. Inner, outer, whatever. Why? We are still falling away, moment by moment, and day after miserable day. The routine is so stale that the decay is apparent everywhere we step. All over, and all over us. There seems no escape nor satiation which has the ability to cease such a slide. Remember the Isolated Slide? Still going. No end, no bottom, no slowing. Steady. Sliding down into whatever we are to become. Where is Andrea to take all of the bad away? Gone, just as our ambition. The images show off models in positioning which accentuates the numbers of life and we still search and stare. They will not go away. And then the real thing goes strolling by in the midst of our sad routine and takes away our ability to function. Every fucking time. Every day? No, but often enough to glue our tired hands to the keyboard for hours. Spitting, spewing, throwing our word-missiles in every direction. Wide open. Raw. Painful. Never-ending. We do not see a different path any longer. More images, more sightings, more falling, more words trying to get across the pain and scrambling for the elusive understanding which beamed out of those pairs of eyes. None of that any longer. Nothing. Just sliding and falling away from what we were. And we keep going in this saddened state as if the proverbial tunnel will eventually be lit. We can be lit, however. The staples are always there... Music, alcohol, dying inside. Always there. Just like the isolated slide. That was coupled with Maria and her big, wide, hopeful eyes staring back at us from a place we cannot understand. We will never understand. Her eyes conveyed so much brightness but we were staring at the inner radii and dropping through the floor due to her sheer beauty and mechanics which are nearly unparalleled. The sight of her eyes melted away in favor of our obsession. Why? They are soulful, big, beautiful windows, but we are broken enough to focus upon our endless need to gaze and understand. Nope. Blackness. That is all. And we keep going enough to lead others toward believing that the site outlet and exploration are helpful. An outlet. Again... Nope. We do not agree and the opinion is noted. Unfortunately, we are correct. There is no outlet. The only drive is to fire the endless thought processes out into the world for the benefit of exactly no one. Not even us. We do enjoy the click of the keys but that is all. After building the new interface nearly seven years ago the work has been quite streamlined when compared to the past. That is something. Coupled with the reconfigured archives the site is straightforward to maintain and update. That is also something which has eased the work. The content is another fucking sad story and will not improve. The stories and scathing commentary are here to stay. The routine mentioned above will creep in here more as well. It is killing us, and when combined with the fucking ongoing and ever-increasing obsession, we have no idea how we are functioning from one day to the next. We just keep going, continue the bitching, and fall all over the floor often. Those drunken tirades from years ago taught us nothing other than the back lawn was cold at four in the morning. Dewy, depressed, down. Hopefully they do not return. We have enough going on right now and waking up in the yard will help nothing. The routine is plenty. The obsession is more. That fucking part of us is ruling the roost, as it were. Every Goddamned day we deal with visions and the fall which results from seeing such beauty and then watching them disappear forever. And then more. And more. And then this... Words, knives, alcohol, and the shit mood. We have been trying to find the reasons, but after years of it there are none. The Raven, too. Equally gone. She was a person difficult to describe. We are still trying to find a way to get that beauty across. So far, very little. She was so unique that even with our moderate command of language the battle remains uphill. And as usual, this has become a fucking entry with no cohesion whatsoever. We covered Evan, rolled into the black in which we have become mired, dumped words about the images, and the fluid is next. Right now? Still agonizing over the radii, Raven, routine, rarity, and relishing. Just look. Right fucking there. Just like the Raven. Those elusive lines we cannot understand. They appear all over the place and send us into a terrible tailspin. They are right there despite such exaggerated positioning. She is accentuating that which we constantly seek and displaying the curves which began this fucking downward spiral. Do you see? The compounds? The gorgeous symmetry? Both inner and outer. Every single detail in place and appearing as a very depressing schematic of our damaged brain cells. We just keep looking and seeing and dreaming. Just like with the Raven, we gaze without limit and see those features which rule all aspects of life. She was the example just inches from our wide eyes.
How did this become the fucking definition of everything?
Look at her. Above. The black lingerie, with hands pulling. Do you see? We do. All of it splayed right fucking there and in one image. She is amazing, but we do not know why. That image is incredible, to say the least. And we cannot display it at full resolution due to the framing. It needs to fit the format, but understand that more detail is not helpful anyway. At least not at this late date. We just stare and try to put things together within the mind and understand why that is so fucking beautiful. She is a person. A model. A photography subject shot and placed there to show off the beauty and dramatic lighting. The image is gorgeous from end to lovely end. From the rear her upper thighs are outlined clearly, outside and inside. The relationship of those lines works together with empty space to define the meaning of life. Dark and light, soft and sharp, inner and outer. All of it, right there. Again, do you see? We see everything, all of the time, both on these depressing pages and out in the real world. Everything, every fucking day. The server from weeks ago looked like the image above, or at least very close. Her pants fit the form so well that nothing was hidden. As she moved around, we saw. We stared. We fucking dreamed and fell. Above, the model is prominently and purposefully shot from the rear. When we gazed at the server from the rear, the brain went into overtime trying to imagine such lingerie underneath. Was it the sexual nature of those curves? Or was it simply the math? We were dying to measure and define the numbers which make up the shape. Enough of those elusive values and we could create a database of information along with images of each subject and possibly understand where the numbers go before a woman becomes either an anomaly or unattractive. The likelihood of that happening is about the same as growing wings and flying above the world. Fuck. That was such a process to begin and organize. We went through holy Hell trying to get it going and then months later shut it down before one contact was made. Yes, the subject has been mentioned before, however the issues now are directly related to that fucking unavailability. Now we simply wallow from one moment to the next due to the fucked up realization that the project was nothing and destined to fail. The inquiries were strange, and our requests far too personal for anyone to respond. Not one message. Nothing. Wrong? Right? Neither? Fuck. We tried out of desperation and the entire works was killed not long after. The idea seemed plausible but in the end hurt us badly. We are still there, wallowing, crying, in pain every day, and dreaming of a world in which such an endeavor could be acceptable. Nope. Never. We are too deviant and fucked up for anything so wondrous to take place. Our exploration will never continue, and like the fluid mentioned below that fact has the ability to end us. We are damaged beyond words over the issues and desires. Damaged. And the Raven knew it. She detected our pain without words. Eyes. Hands. Her huge heart and unending compassion. Understanding. Loving glances, caring hands, and the fucking eyes over which we still agonize after years of missing her company. Years. And here we sit in exactly the same position and carrying the same fucking curvy demons. Some of them are here on this page. Again... Do you see? Everything is right there and we will never know why. Damage. Dead. Pain. Yearning. Nothing. Fuck. Just... Fuck. The same words over and over and over. Every day, week, month, year. The same. We just keep going and the work helps us not. Nothing. Why? No answer. Still nothing after all these years and thousands of words. Questions. Fucking nothing. No insight, no hope, and little inclination to continue. Black. Anything? Anyone? Nope. Fuck no. Nothing and no one. We are all the way in with no way out and back to a sense of normalcy, lacking ideas, empty of positives, and ready to shut down completely. Close. We are fucking close. And then there is the fluid. God help us.
The end of all things
The fluid may kill us. We love it and we hate it equally and at differing times. The fluid is the primary reason behind much destructive behavior, rash decisions, and the catalyst which brought forth hundreds of days both in front of this editor and out in the world with heads full of hellish worry and pain. Desire, burning inside and with zero chance of outlet. Desire removing options, dictating movements, pressing the brainpower into the smallest of spaces and narrowing our vision to one fine point. The fluid brings thoughts of deviant searching despite futile effort. The fucking fluid. Before those moments? Overwhelming need and the most powerful draw on earth. After those moments? Nothing. Flat. Dead. In need of isolation and understanding. The wonder and excitement disappears and leaves us empty of everything. Days pass, we dream again, and the pressure builds once more. Bad, all bad. The temporary fix does nothing in the long run. Watching from a detached position offers nothing, either. We sit and dream of what is happening, however the direction means we are empty of the same. Confusing? This is supposed to be as such. Ambiguous, unclear, toward the oblique. All the way. We will not lead readers from a to b to c. Follow along, for fuck's sake. Effort. The watching causes further damage for two reasons: One, we are not involved, and two, the perspective is such that the enticement runs out of control. And then we fall again. There is always the idea of a temporary escape, though. But that ends in even worse feelings of emptiness and loneliness. The up disappears as always, and after such a situation we are a combination of anger, depression, and pain. Done. Gone. Unhappy. Broken. Fucked. Nothing. Bad. All fucking bad and no satiation whatsoever. This may kill us with all haste. The thoughts and dreams become overwhelming and press us toward a reckless run. Dangerous. Dreaming. Yearning. Empty. Nothing. Fuck. The fluid is deadly. But production will not cease, no matter our dire wishes. The fluid has little to do with the gorgeous creature pictured upon this entry. It is all us. It is unending in the draw, unrelenting in the power, and unreal to consider as a part of life. We need to get rid of it but there is nothing which can be done in these late days. Not a fucking thing. We just have to fucking live with it. Drain. Nope. The simple fact is that the words here do nothing when held against the power the fluid holds over our lives. All we can do is throw this shit to the wind and then look at it. The words. Once published, they sit there for all time, or at least as long as we hold sway over the domain ownership. That should be funny. Not funny. The fluid is in charge, along with all mechanisms related to production and flow. We are helpless. Honestly. Another seven to ten days, another set of words tossed to the screen, and another dream squashed just like a fucking fly on a windshield. We just keep going, treading that horrible water, and awaiting the next incident which will either kill us or heal us for all time. Either seems fine, but the sinking feeling is that the former is going to take us away. The Fantasy, the Eden, the Falling, the Air, the Rope, the Misery... Add them up and you shall see that things are not good. Not in the least. We have dropped so fucking far that the upside is no longer visible. We cannot see straight for the desire. The Raven left us here -- alone, yearning, needing, wanting -- and the fluid sits there awaiting something. A change. An exit. A turn. Something other than the path we have created throughout these many years. But nothing is there. No hope. No drive. No caring. And damned little which has the power to keep us from the pit of despair where we have belonged and denied for so many fucking years. The fucking Goddamned fluid over which we have no control and through which we cannot see. Well, guess what? Fuck that fluid. Fuck us. Fuck you. Fuck it all. Expect the worst switch to flip. Coming soon to a website near you. Don't like it? Blame the fluid. Take it away. Please. The dam will break. When it does, we will be upon the rocks below awaiting the flood and the blood. The unpleasant is about to begin."
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