Stasis in silence - Darkness quite clear. Freshly pulled sex, from the Mother herself. The scent of saccharin death -- Looms far too closely. Invisible inhalations cause a lightheaded fit. The spactacle of delivering external testicles, A laughing matter. Press lips against sullen cheekbones; Most grateful for the gift of reproduction. Flashes of the dying reach for you once more - Pulling so tenderly at the senses, Coating the world with the powder of lust -- A yellowed tincture against flus...

I've sinned again. I've felt the skin that I should've left alone once more, betrayed the very hand that guided me and saught my redemption even when I...did not. I harbor the faint skittish memories of your touch and the way your rough, calluoused hands roamed the open fields that became a tapestry, a place for you to explore and discover things we've only dared dream of privately and even then...the deepest recesses were not enough. When you lean against me, whispering near violent pleasant...

She awoke with a bated breath, a clumsy word trembled on her lips. The woman closed her eyes and simply rested there in that ample, companionless bed. The sound of her heart beating rapidly against her chest her only comfort there in the pitch-black darkness of the room. The space around her had simply grown far to cumbersome in the stills of the late hour. Her eyes scanned the now shadowy and foreign forms littering her room...her thoughts drifted. "I must stop doing this." The words fell, n...

Fifteen was the year that things changed, things changed. The year that I drew hearts beside -his- name. The time that ceased to be before it ever was. that year I learned about two white doves. Fifteen was a number that held no bearing. The years passed by and I drew more than just hearts beside his name. The time moved slowly, creaking like the door...the frame. Your face was timeless and pristine. Fifteen was a dream. I touched the heart, in my chest...not on the page. I held him close to ...

Maybe the world isn't so cut and dry. Things aren't as we've hoped and dreamed for. However I have opted to become inclined to say that perhaps the things that dreams are made of, the rare glow and capture of a thought...these things don't exactly equate a realism. To dream is to love and to love is to give hope...a faith of sorts. I believe in none of these things and yet have profited from both. I make my money from your weaknesses. I pay my bills with your "hope", your "dreams". When I sit...