It can take a moment for a body to register what is happening, a moment where the flesh lags behind the mind. Sometimes this moment is unnoticeable, and at other times it stretches on for weeks on end. And yet it is in the body where we can relate and make feelings tactile. Is this lag between mind and conscious a desired outcome? Or merely a quirk of our biology? Who would figure it out first?

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Is art, without observer? Is, any work, without a beneficiary? Is there creation, without a creator?

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To give my thoughts on this quickly...

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What wonders awaits us, none. As simple as that, for nothing waits for those walking, all that is we have now, and nothing more can be created from nothing. Withing ourselves, it is what we think that becomes a reality, how we act and how we portray ourselves is what matters for the world. If you strive to be responsible, then you will forever strive.
You are what you are, and all that matters is what you are now. For what you are now, you will be for the rest of your life.

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We have a bit of a month of pony going on, there will be pony uploads for almost the entire month~. And today we start up a new story, we are heading back to the Orchard, and you know it gets wild and filthy there. You have been warned~.

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We come to the conclusion of the Orchard ad chronicle today and it is time to get intimate. Story linked down below.

What awaits in the past will stay there forever, only your perception of it can change. And only the effects its ripples have on the future, is what you can better.

Happy Midsummer~.

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~.

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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And that’s that. That’s the end.

It’s been quite the ride, hasn’t it? Over a year spent writing The Bonds of Love, and over a year and a half spent discussing the actual writing process.

I think I’ve said everything I had to say or even could say about my story, but well? Come on, you all know me enough by now to know I just can’t shut up even when I should.

Sooo…?

To summarize my overall opinions on every major aspect of The Bonds of Love…?

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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~.

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~.

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.