Daylight savings time. Great. Admin despises this time of year, and it represents the second-worst
date on the calendar. Along those lines, the essays we have in the pipeline -- including this latest mess -- are
going to be quite negative. Expect nothing good.
The orange accents and links are apparently helping readers navigate from mobile devices. They will remain the
same color and may lighten slightly as time passes. Other than that, just backend work and support are taking
place as we are always striving to streamline, organize, and speed the site.
read ( words)
"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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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 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."