As storm clouds loom ahead, I upon my bed, and knit a pouch or sorrows, to carry for tomorrow. I line the piping in dread, and thread the warp with fear, and once the pouch is woven, I wash it out with tears.
Come bright morrow I step outside, bag of mine in hand,
It is filled with bright thoughts and fantasies, I carry across the land.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

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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Sometimes I just want to bake bread. What kind? One I can knead, one which I can force all the thoughts and distresses of the day to day into, one that not only is capable of taking the force, but will grow from it, will mature and develop until it is presentable. I strive to do the same.
One day I will develop gluten.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Morbid curiosity has gotten me further than I would like to admit, times I prod past the veil of taboo and work my way into someone's deb. There is only so much to a person's physical form, and the grander your understanding of it, the closer you get to the spirit. For if you can understand its control scheme, the way it has to puppeteer this meat suit, the more your grasp its limits the further defined the negative space of the ethereal creature becomes.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

I don't like measuring my progress in years, because it starts to feel too short, a year is such a large span of time, we have a double digit of them in a life, and to think I spent so much of that without a clear purpose, is scary. Thankfully, it is easier to forget than to think.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Once I asked where the wind blow, where it carries its call and force through the lands and across the sea, where it leads the currents of air that brush through my hair. Though as I grew, I realized that there is nowhere the wind blows, but one continuous wind, there is no destination, there is just a pattern, a whole o be acknowledged.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Quite strange, it feels as if a year had just passed by in an instance... So many voices calling out to be muted by aethereal filaments. Of untapped potential and personality. Wherefore hath this presence made itself manifest?
Will it ever return, or will we then have changed too much to recognize it?

Happy Filthy Leapyear Friday~

There are too many ethereal wasps drilling through my head to process what you just said? Could you take it from the top? You said something about a warning not adhered to? I am uncertain what the bull squid would have to say about that.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

The act of consumption is a decadent strive for prolonging the same transient existence snuffed out from other beings.
But it is hella tasty if done right.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Sometimes I miss the old days, sometimes I forget there were any other days. The present belongs to those alive, and it always has, though few get to enjoy that gift. Few compared to the past ruled by legions upon legions of souls, innumerable, yet locked to their times. I stand with my back against an army of ghosts, and I smile.

Happy Filthy Friday~.