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~.

Oh readers, it is so good to be back!

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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~.

At times, there is a certain relief in letting go. I get used to burdens as they accumulate, as their compile and insinuate their presence in my life. Despite the loss and pain of letting them go, despite the agony of what I fear life would be without it, there is a wonderful sensation in being able to take deep, long, breaths.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

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Where did all the boy bands go?
Where are my, handsome lads?
Could they not keep up, with the flow?
Were they just a, passing fad?

Matching vests and upturned hats,
Stages bathed in bisexual lights,
Today musics sung by brats,
won't anyone hear my plight...

Aaaaa

AAaaaaaa
AAaaaaaa

I need a Boy Band.

Happy Filthy Friday, and happy early Vore Day~.

We have a new story today, great way to start the year. This one was part of another Pony art pack. And isn't particularly filthy or lewd. A story about being left in the cold, and the choices you make in the face of neglect.

Time passes by quicker than expected, only because my perception of time is flawed. After ignoring it for so long, I suppose I should have seen it coming.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Are transient joys, even joys to begin with? Can you be satisfied with something if you are well aware that it is not to last? For some it is fine to live moment by moment and enjoy times as they come. For others it is not the joy itself but the promise of future pleasures that sustains them.

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We keep contact brief
and hope it is leading,
to a sigh of relief,
once no one's left breathing.

Happy Clean Filthy Friday~.

Wash your hands, 30 seconds.

I look upon the fruit's grandeur: its shell vibrant with a scintilla sheen of its hues. Within housing pods of nourishing, supple syrup. Each pod holds a seed, the intended recipient of the fruit's benefits. Were it not for the seed, there would be no fruit, were it not for the seed, there would be no plant. And yet here I stand, holding the fruit, claimed for my own. What right do I have to it? Other than that which I attributed to myself.
And yet, I am playing right into the tree's trap.

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FUCK YOU, WRITER'S BLOCK!! YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE!!!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahahahaheheheheh....heh...

Yep, Ladies and Gents, I have beaten back the terrible writer's block! At least for now.

Over the weekend, I was able to complete one of my stories (until my editor suggested a possible extension), get some work done on AR2 stuff, but most importantly...

I FINISHED DRAFTING THE ENTIRE PLOTLINE OF HLW!!!

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