How does the custodian with thumbs for fingers pick her nose? Having 4 extra maneuverable digits compared to her associates, their fine motoric is splendid and articulate. Through some practice they overshoot the limits of their coworkers and deliver results with accuracy and precision. Through this obscene altercation of biology, they grasp further. Though some tasks are made difficult.
The custodian with thumbs for fingers, have wide nostrils.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

I sit on a beach, a bit mellow and sad,
when out from a burrow, scuttles a crab.
The shelled critter stares, across the sand it zooms,
it hasn't seen anyone, beset by this gloom.
It is there for a moment, then fades out of sight,
The shelled critter has no input, on my weary plight.
When out from my sorrow, bemused and, glad?
I sit on the beach, an monument to a crab.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Time goes by too quickly, and time speeds by to fast, while I sit back into my couch and pack on cushion ass.
Light now withdrawing, and nights growing... roaming, that could have been anything.
You just, have to keep out of its sight.
As long as you stay moving, you fade from its bright. So do not just stand there, with robe unveiled, while there is lot else worth exploring.

Happy nightmare night~.

Almost a year ago now, I took part in the Lustful Lent Pony Artpack, and today I'll start posting the story submitted for it. It has been a lot of fun, and I am eager to work with them more~.

At times, when walking down the road of life, I see some in trouble. I see those with legs in poor condition, their pace rickety as their osseotissue clockwork grinds ever onward. Some can be helped. Yet the road is wide. Densely populated. Perhaps I am just scared.

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There is so much to do, and yet I choose to do nothing. It pains me not to work, and yet I leave it be. Days are fallen leaves, and autumn's clutches firm. Auburn crumbles through my fingers, the dust of time's allure.
Yet staring down will only fill the mind with a carpet of tree's veil, but looking up gives me a chance, to catch one by the tail.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Whatever comes after is something I consider, after, there always seems to be an after. After this, after that, few things that are not n after are ever brought up, and when they are it is but a brief window. Everything leaves all thoughts for after, but in doing so, miss out on their afterthought.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

I have heard the story of the ship of theseus: a vessel you gradually replace, bit by bit, until none of the original remain. Then if you took all the discarded parts and assembled those into a ship, which is the true ship?
I have also heard this likened to the the body of living creature; if each cell is gradually replaced along a person's life, what remains of them at the end is not a separate entity from what they began as. Or even what were were just a few months ago.

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Sometimes ideals as pleasant to hold. It can invoke a sense of drive, sculpt a destination out of uncertainty. A goal which becomes easy to tunnel into. And see nothing else. Until you neglect what lies around you. and sometimes. You just have the tunnel.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Those with planes reach the sky with ease, just to stare back down.

We have a new story being posted next week.
Happy Filthy Friday~.

It is surprising how much distance I create to others by focusing. Were I to absolve myself of my routine shackles, I would flow from person to person, a stream of interaction to fill the seconds of the day. Though without those shackles, I would be unable to get anything done. My focus breeds results, but severs ties.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Uploading the story sent in for the Pony Vore Anal Autumn Art Pack from last year~.

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What is a sandwhich other than a vessel? A fluffy, spongy coating sealing an amalgamation of meat and fillings within, squishy materials who on their own is lesser than the sum of their parts. There are no two sandwhiches laying equal, only those alike, and there is infinite potential for how it can be arranged and enjoyed. All sandwiches are not to the taste of every eater, yet who can say a sandwich is inherently poor or tasteless? It is true we tend to group those alike into a group, by

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Space is a curious thing, the larger something is, the harder it is to see it, the smaller something is, the more keen we are to see it, and noting every detail we can find.
Though perhaps that is a reductive way to look at it. Were we to change perspectives, and say "Experience" instead of seeing... Then the larger something is, the harder it is to experience as a whole. And the small details we do catch, we take care to experience and savour.

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Time stretches on, with you in tow or not. It asks not to keep up pace, merely to stay on the path. Each a step, after another.
But what if, there really was something beyond?
Beyond the veil of the route that engraves existence, beyond our grasp of life?
Is that a place we can walk to, or do we simply fall over the edge?

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Wash your hands for 30 seconds.

How easy our mind shifts from one to the next, even what we appreciate makes up not but a fraction of all that goes on within us, connections crafted and paths forged, walkways ready for us to tread them, and yet we can only strive so far away from the main road.
Are the additional thoughts wasted effort? Or what makes us living?

Happy Filthy Friday~.

We have a new entry in the Lustbound Chronicle today, one that is technically out of order. A look into what the future might hold for the stallion of the hour~.

Precipice of action, a weight towards stagnation and an abyss of possibility. Picking specks of sand from the broken hourglass suspended above me.
Picking, picking, picking.
The same grain appears again, again, again.
it calls, more friends come ticking.
And the balance continues ever onwards.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

How much longer will it take to complete this task?
How often do I think about that? How often is the question not, what am I doing? Why am I doing it? But: When am I done?
Yet, sometimes, for very few tasks, this melts away. Everything revolves around the what, how, and why. And in those rare moments, if the question of when comes up... the answer is the same: There is no after, there is only this.

Happy Filthy Friday~, and Happy Darkest night.

A snake coils around the word.
It has laid continents and oceans under its grasp, wading through the dirt on its quest.
It sees something rise up over the horizon, a prey befitting its hunger.
It strikes.
It feasts.
It keeps feasting.
It moves forwards, filling its mouth, yet there is always more ahead.
It continues.
It continues for an indefinite amount of time. A symbol of infinity.
If infinity has no end, and this one moment has no end, is infinity, nought but one moment long.

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There are times when you stare downwards, at your feet, your path, your problems. It is all you see, everything directly around it feels unimportant, distant. Stare too long, and you will not know where you are headed.
Once you look forwards, you cannot see yourself, problems are still there, but there is a goal.
It is uplifting, and sad, to think that is the way to handle any crisis.

What happens when you look up?

Happy Clean Filthy Friday~.

Treading towards the end, watching the cobble of the path fall apart, but the rocks staple together beneath my feet, each step progressing as if nothing happened, as if everything was right. But then, before the fall, new pathways converge, cobble clatter together, and before I have a chance to look down, the path is the same as it ever was.
And so it will be, until that fateful day.

Happy new Year~.