01-01-2019 07:21 pst

If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning

The Server and the Separation

read ( words)

"January the first. Nineteen, I see. Fuck.

Nothing is good. These last two days have seen me fall down badly due to my physical health stepping up and making me realize that I have control over exactly nothing aside from what you see displayed here. I dropped off a cliff and have lost time which will never return. I have also lost patience with the endless addiction, compulsion, obsession, and desire to explore further into the territory of individual private lives. The chances continue to slim with each passing day as I carry on following the path laid out here years ago. This latest description of a wonder of nature is part of the catalyst; the remaining section being my inability to understand anything coupled with the need to isolate myself permanently. In short, I have been knocked sideways during the last two days and the resulting irritation is pressing me further down and into a space where others are disallowed existence.

As I stated last week, the beginning of the calendar year is also the end of my happiness. I do not like the days becoming longer and sunshine hanging on beyond my limits. This day represents the general idea that there is a beginning, new time, new opportunities... and that is fine. I do not agree, however. What do I see? Numbers on the calendar changing and days increasing in duration. While others become very positive and hopeful at the outset of the new year, I fall into a pit of depression. This time of year pushes me into a quest for finding agreeable comfort while awaiting the outset of Fall. Yes, the Master season is my favorite, however in this place there exists no Winter. Combine that with the hellish vision below and the resulting mix is placing me outside myself. I am falling again and further.

Is there an up? Not right now. All I have is the need to separate myself from the herd and keep things organized as much as possible. If I can maintain some sort of stance with regard to the endlessly difficult enigmas which stroll by from time to time I just might survive to see another September. The present moment of living the earliest day of the year is stifling any motivation to even get this shit out there. If not for the fucking goddess described below, there would likely be nothing here for many weeks.


We cruised into the restaurant and straight to the large bar and lounge where we preferred to sit. The Raven and I sat there many times as well, always enjoying the dim lighting and isolation from the main dining room. The Raven sat at a right-angle to me and was in near constant contact whenever we were there. She liked the atmosphere and the separation from our places of work and home. Comfortable, low-key, satisfying.

This latest occasion was similar, with the typical need to relax away from others. Unfortunately, not all was cozy that afternoon. Our bartender -- whom we had known well due to lots of visits there -- was a gorgeous creature, all sculptured nails, sharp makeup, bouncing breasts and wondrous thighs. We knew her to a point, along with another male bartender and always the service and courtesy were top-notch. She was very sweet and adorable, with a slight devilishness to her grin. Dark, mysterious, captivating. However that was not the issue. Another server showed herself between visiting tables, to my far right, and hugged the service bar when not needed. That was the beginning of one of the most troublesome and depressing periods in recent memory. The girl at the show was a trial and an extreme difficulty for my broken brain, but this example of vast physical attractiveness combined with her unreal resemblance to a few of the most beautiful Russian models I have ever laid eyes upon has become one of the pinnacle sights. The girl was going about her business and taking care of patrons while inside I was going through a hell I had not felt since Andrea's heels announced her departure from my life. Yes, another, and a form I will never forget.

There is also one enormous difference between the girl at the show and the server at the restaurant. A statement in the middle of that essay clearly told readers that I knew the need to gaze at her had to take priority over all other activities that evening because upon her leaving for the night I would never see her again. I had not seen her before which means the likelihood of the girl visiting there again was not something calculable now or ever. That happens all the time... gorgeous, unknown, gone. Such is life. The issue now is the fact that this young girl works at the restaurant. I can visit again and again if I wish. And yes, each sighting of this one will cause irreparable damage. The main issue is related to the images on this page. She looked like the model here. Legs, curves within, radii and the gorgeous places where they lead along with her nose, shoulders, arms, fingers, everything. Her height is an anomaly, her thighs were exactly matched to the Raven and those of Andrea's vast beauty. All of it. I was floored, fucked, depressed, done. But I stared anyway. That is what I have become. Jesus God in a fucking broken teacup. A very young, very beautiful enigma working close to home in a restaurant when she should be ruling the free world with a glance. Fuck me.


Everything was right there. As I watched her move from the service bar to the tables and back toward her register, the visions piled up in my head like dreams. I could not believe what I was seeing right before my damaged and hungry eyes. Her arms were slender to the point of pushing my highest interest -- long and shapely despite such slim musculature. Fingers pressing my eyes into a mold from which there was no escape. Her shoulders were excruciatingly sharp and displayed a separation from her chest like few I had seen before. Those fingers took to the keyboard as if she were a concert pianist. Graceful motions flowing like a brook inside my head. Very long, wavy jet-black hair like the Raven swaying back and forth as she walked from place to place. I watched that hair as it motioned me to follow along into yet another pit of desire. While still and awaiting a duty, she occasionally crossed them and I saw her upper arms forming into a shape I wished to photograph. A bit of a smile while speaking with a coworker, too. Wide-set full lips, cheeks pushing upward from the bones beneath, and a long nose with a slight bump which made me insane. She had all of it and in ways I could not understand. Did she know? Could she have understood what I was seeing? Possibly others, too? There are no answers. Just a relaxed young girl at work standing as one of the most stunning examples of beauty and physical proportions I had ever seen in my life.

And her waist below. God help me.

And then her thighs and rear. Where did she come from? Was anyone else seeing as I did? Holy fucking shit, I had to continue staring whenever possible. Form-fitting thin, black pants wrapped her long legs and defined all of the aspects of the female form over which I have obsessed for nearly two decades. Unreal. She had the shape of the inside of my brain. More staring. More moving about the room. More pain. More falling. There was no other way. My weakness and need took over and the rest of the planet melted away as I gazed. Even sitting here at this very moment just a few days later and I am still in that hole. No escape. Nothing. Just visions cutting my insides to fucking ribbons. I covertly traced those radii over and over with the addiction peaking. I needed it. I needed to see everything possible right before me. Positions, motions, changes in the manner of her form... thigh displacement, definition coming and going, movements creating differing sights with my vision swallowing all. Her legs were enough of a draw upon me to cause the familiar depressive state over no possibility of knowing why she looked like a dream. There was no understanding because I cannot measure, I cannot see what the ratios are. I have never been able to define the why. The only opportunity to actually create a numerical pattern and record for knowing a bit of the why was the Raven, however that never came to light. The girl at the restaurant was similar enough to cause me pain like I have not felt in years. Too much need, too much want, too much unavailable. Fuck me anyway. Who am I? Anyone? Nope.

Those legs were unbelievable. The first image on this fucking page is what the shape of her thighs displayed before me. The two heavenly gaps as they relate to the outer shape and each other. To and fro those spaces took over the room and made the world melt away more than once. They were right fucking there not twenty feet from my disturbed, deviant psyche. I watched from multiple angles to see if the alignment was true, and it was. They were so aligned with the visions of the past several years that I could not understand what I was actually seeing. Her height also lent to the thigh proportions. There was a vast disparity above and below her knees which became exaggerated in certain positions. Definition? Fuck yes. All muscle. Nothing else. The pants helped me to see her real form without any fucking interference. And that is part of the problem. She may as well have been nude... The pants fit that well. God damn it anyway. The gaps are going to be my demise one of these fucking days. Ugh.


The inner radii have been a large portion of my addiction from the very beginning. Just radii. Not sex, no contact, nothing else. Curving lines, converging and diverging in more magical ways than I can possibly explain. And further than I can understand. I sat there and fucking stared at her thighs with so much yearning that I felt as if I was attempting to coax God himself into showing his ancient face for clarification as to just why I needed such a sight so badly. No way. All I had was the vision of her unending draw upon my brain and my own weak need to carry on gazing at something I will never understand. Back and forth across the room from time to time, I watched all of her fluidly moving and forcing a shapely spike into my brain. When she paused to speak with a coworker at the edge of the service bar, I caught sight of the front three-quarter view of her thighs. She resembled so many other women over which I have agonized for years that I nearly lost it sitting there. The image of those radii right across the room was almost too much. The numbers again blazed a trail directly from my eyes to the spaces within my mind where the desire torched my ability to keep myself upright. I just could not believe what I was seeing and could not handle the idea that I will never know why.

She did not have any of the musculature which caused distortion of the hip-to-waist, nor did her quadriceps display the front-push which grows from lifting weights. The natural curves were apparent from her hips to the floor. That relationship between upper thighs, hips, waist, and the lower stomach is extremely subjective, fascinating, and a good portion of my focus. The amount of exaggeration changes with the slightest difference in numbers and the area can become radically different very quickly. The girl standing before me showed just enough of a mathematical comparison that my head spun. Everything worked together and formed a shape I have seen in person on a very small number of occasions.

The girl was tall and appearing as a fucking example I had not see for a long time. Not even the girl at the show was so well aligned to the shapes I have studied for what feels an eternity. Those long arms were softly folded and I began to estimate her height based upon the bar top and the male next to her. She did not notice my eyes at all, so I kept on with my study nearly unrestricted. I guessed five-foot-eight, if not a bit taller. Those long, slender arms and fingers kept the estimate high, although knowing for certain is not likely. I simply gazed at all of her wonderfully stretched features and drew a conclusion as best I could. And then she took off about the room again and sent me flying. Her legs moved with a grace I could not understand and with the smoothness of the Raven. Her gait was unreal due to everything being so lengthy. Each step brought a different perspective and more radii than I could take in. I kept on with the staring despite massive damage I knew was shortly incoming. And here it is.


After leaving the restaurant my companion helped to keep me upright and distracted for the most part, but upon finally reaching home the words began to form. They will never be enough, of course, due to the vast beauty and subjective value placed upon a person by others with disparate tastes and appreciation. I am just one person with a head full of numbers and comparisons. I am not the soul to sit and admire for a short period and then let it fall away. Impossible, just as my haphazard description. The vision keeps going for days and days and leaves me a pile of worthless shit and unable to properly function around others. I still see her standing there, three-quarters turned away, and looking like the goddess she was. The picture of all of her is staggering. It floats within. It hurts me deeply. And there is not one fucking thing I can do about it. Crippled.

This latest vision came just before I was floored by my insides, yet still feels enticing. I needed to know all of her intimately. I always do when such an occurrence comes along during my otherwise dead days. I needed it so badly that even after time has passed the feeling is still in there floating around my fucked up head. The sight commands me for a time and then leaves any unrelated ambition on the side of the road. And this? Well, what else do I have these days? Nothing. Dreams. Dead. Flying. Falling. Fucked.


No matter how far others believe they are in... no. They are not. The storefront is closed, locked, abandoned. The separation between myself and the remainder of conscious society is absolute. There will be no change, no rise, no nothing. Just leave it. Let me obsess and fall, let me explore and drop, let me do what I have known would become my undoing. And the words are going to cease for the most part. Speaking with others helps absolutely nothing and no one. Mostly them. This endeavor is one-way, although the new comments section below each individual title allows for feedback. Why we did that I will never know, but the likelihood of words appearing there is roughly the same as the odds of Pluto being allowed back into the club so I guess it does not matter anyway. This site does not remain afloat due to the supportive words of others. It is fucking static. Period.

And I do not care anyway.

And the visions are going to kill me.

And the time is growing short.

And happy fucking new year."