Good question

In exile...

This post is given to you not from my home where I usually write these little nuggets of human waste, but from a public library, because, the world being highly irrational and malevolent, the internet connection is fucked up.
This makes me angry.

Yesterday when I was at the store to buy yogurt and fruit after my work-out, I saw a woman in highly professional get-up(hoes, mini-skirt, blouse etc) on her knees, on the dirty floor, moaning and groaning as she tried her best to pull a black-laced thong on the plastic representation pf the pelvic-area of a woman.
The pelvic-area was made of a horrible, brown-gray synthetic material and contained only the upper thighs, lower adomen and the vagina(even though there was, stricktly speaking, not any sort of hole).
I just stopped dead in my tracks, stared at her openly, and swore to myself that I had to use this somehwere.
It struck me as a very eloquent symbol. So now all the feminists out there can be happy because I aided their cause. I hope you send me a button soon as well as a handbook on how to be an angry feminist.

On a completely seperate issue, I am still pretty pissed about not being able to use the internet at my house, and now I feel I want to murder someone.

Never underestimate the power of one word:

Confusion, agony, stasis, perception, clairvoyance, annoyance, acceptance, rejection, corruption, elevation, migration, aggrivation, implication, indiscision, trembling, quivering, quaking, falling, dying, laughing, learning, loving, moving, swaying, thinking, growing, turning, bending, stalling, stealing, trusting, failing, lying, crying, DYING.

Yes, I am dying. I am mortally wounded. I am fatally limited.

Curb your enthusiasm about Curb Your Enthusiasm

I don't get this show. Larry David is so friggin' annoying! And if he is so rich, why does he look like a slob all the time?
It just irritates me that the people get in so much trouble over so small things. Like don't having change for the parking or not being able to buy the bracelet because he looks unkempt.
And most of the time the actors just talk simultaneously so all your hear is this cackle.

It was funny when the old woman ripped apart the sheet with the directions.

There is so much beauty in the world...

I'm going to see the latest Sam Mendes movie today, Jarhead, and I am really looking foreward to it. Regardless of piss-temperated reviews from Norweigian press it looks promising. And of course, wonderful Thomas Newman has the score.

Today I found 10.000 kroner on my account which weren't supposed to be there, but then I checked my records and found out that they were supposed to be there. For a moment I thought I had earned a lot of money from nowhere, but I hadn't, so that was stupid of me.

I have been reading two books simultaneously. A Man in Full by one of the Wolfes and Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan. The first seems promising, even though I don't quite know where he is going with the book, the second is strange and I think I don't get it. I understand only fragments of it. Brautigan just jumps, leaps from episode to episode, from place to place, and even though it is supposed to be like that, I find it hard to catch that elusive plot down.
I read somewhere that Richard Brautigan was a terrible person. The book makes him seem anything but.

I have bought an Alanis Morrissette CD, and now she is my new muse. There is so much energy in her songs. They thrust me foreward, lunging me into motion when I just want to be static.

FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!!

You know what, there is nothing more in this world I hate more than you. And that is a strong statement coming from someone with such an overwhelming surpluss of hate.
FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!
Who the hell do you think you are?! You little, pitiful, pathetic, malcontented, vicious, ungrateful, blind-as-a-fucking-bloodsucking-bat! What puts you in this position, this pedestal and throne of human misery, you victim, you shallow, on-your-knees screaming hysterically, causing my spines to shrink, crying in your room with the music just loud enough to be called loud but shallow enough so I can hear your whines over that disgusting depravity you call music.
A woman screams:" Why have you forsaken me?! WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?!"
FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!
Do I feel pity now for my arguments, for that moment I thought I would hit you flat with my hand, that moment I felt my adrenaline as a furious bellow from the molten cracks of my deepest most humane hate. Epic hate. Epic disgust.
Do I feel sorry now for those things I said, those words perhaps even more vicious than yours? Do I regret, do I also feel the pain of hating you?

Can I forgive your ultimate blindfold, the way you stumble through life, taking credit for anything good, blaming the bad on other people? Can I ever find it to be peaceful next to you, not feel the astounding weight of our spoken bible-pages and the pressure of the way I can't seem to forgive you for your blindness.
You stupid, little child.
What do you know?
What do you know about me, about anything since everyone has sheltered you like some fragile egg with cracks like painted patterns of fairy tales. Who are you, you camelon, you slime, you fucking princess.
The world is not yours. The meek shall not inherit the world. The world is evanescent, you are not.
You have taken too much.
You have claimed it all.
And you now have nothing except my hate.

238

238

Random facts

- Jaber Al-Ahmad Al-Jaber Al-Sabah is a real name.

-

This compound is called Pactiaxel and contains many functional groups which we who study chemistry can use as mastubatory aid(Yes, it is offical, that is my new favorite word) There are ketones, aldehyds(on second thought, no. There are no aldehyds in this molecule), hydroxyl-groups, aromatic hydrocarbons... The list goes on and on.

- I enjoy things I can remember.

- The five major groups of fungi are decided by the fungi's respecitve sexual organ. For example, the Chytridiomycota produce zoospores that are capable of moving on their own through liquid mesnstrua by simple flagella.

- There exist people somewhere in the world with skin as dark as the night!

- Fun with Dick and Jane is not a porno.

- In a pornographic video, six guys builded a bed and then had sex on it, which I thought was very funny. I want to use this in my writing somwhere.

- Three is larger than one and two-thirds.

- Anders Olsaker's penis is 15 cm long(or short) in erect form. This is about half the lenght of my penis in erect form, so my penis is 30 cm long and I am the bigger man! Therefore I win.

- The koala-bear female has two vaginas and the koala-bear male has a forked penis.

- Green is a color.

Another addition to things that really annoy me...

- That horrible Sit-com FRIENDS which once was the rest of the words weekendly mastubatory aid. I mean, it's just so unrealistic. Yes, Joey, you like food and women and you are dumb as hell. Yes, Monica, you are a cleaning freak. Yes, Chandler you are sarcastic.
But who the fuck cares?
Here is a micro cosmos of every FRIENDS episode ever concieved:

INT. THAT FUCKING CAFEE WHATEVER IT IS CALLED - Day

CHANDLER, JOEY and PHOEBE sit and talk.

JOEY
I am stupid. I am hungry. I had sex with a hundered women last night who find my continuously corpulent body attractive. I am starting to become fat, and this is season nine.

CHANDLER
You are just like some famous, fit guy. Except that you are not famous or that you are not fit.

JOEY
(Happy, carefree)
Yeah! I'm a guy!

PHOEBE
I had this dream once I was a guy.

CHANDLER
What did you do? Did you, like, touch yourself?

(For some reason unknown to Man, the audience are now laughing so heavily it creates an artificial, highly uncomfortable vacuum in which the "actors" try to act normal)

PHOEBE
No! I wrote a song about it since this has been a concurrent theme through the series. Shall I sing it to you?

(No one say anything.)

JOEY
Hey! There is a muffin over there... And its held by a beautiful woman! This is my lucky day.
(runs off)

CHANDLER
(Looks disgruntled at JOEY as he leaves the couch, then at PHOEBE, then at JOEY again)
There is a cookie over there... And it's held by a beautiful man...

PHOEBE
Nice try! Now listen:
(sings off beat)
I am a guy. I have a penis. Nothing rhymes with penis, except almosty tennis. I am a guy.

MONICA enteres the cafee and sits down next to CHANDLER. Before she seats she pulls out a blanket with the anagram M.G.B and sits on it. Then she leans to CHANDLER and the two kiss an awkward kiss.

CHANDLER
(to MONICA)
Are you still mad about last night?

MONICA
No. The bed is cleaned up and I am cleaned up. I mean, why did you have to squirt it out everywhere?

CHANDLER
I'm sorry, I will never eat hot dogs in bed again.

MONICA
You better not! You have no idea how hard it was to get out those ketchup stains...

PHOEBE
I once had a dream I was a ketchup-bottle...


I am so wild and free and funky! I sing songs off-beat and have a dead mother who comitted suicide.
Those are my only character traits, and therefore
I am a broadly drawn person who other
people can relate to. It is not clever or challanging or
even honest.
But its television. And it's America.

So you can make me come, that doesn't make you Jesus!

Here is a list about things that really annoys me:

- When drunk people force the un-drunk people to dance because it makes them uncomfortable to know that there are bystanders. Usually I am in the drunk end of this relationship so basically I am a hypocrite, but nevertheless, it annoys me.

- When people announce what, in excrutiating detail, they have done in the bathroom. The sort of individual who manages to do such a thing usually moans as he or she extends his or her hands and claps their own stomach. Yes we all have bodily functions and yes we have all seen our own excrements and eaten them as well, but you don't need to remind us about them whilst we are eating.(Unless we are currently eating our own excrement, then it is okay)

- People who make jokes about eating their or other people's excrements.

- People who have sex-discussions on the bus right behind me so I am forced to listen to it. I now know everything about everything, thank you very much.

- People who refuse to pay that lousy 50 øre( that is less than 10 cents!) for a plastic-bag at the super market and tries to hide the million they need for the million things they have bought. They usually take the bags when the woman(take that you annoying feminists!) at the counter looks down.
I want to hit them with something hard, and I do not mean my penis. Speaking of penis, I have drawn one on the illustration. Can you see it?

- People who constantly refer to reproductive organs...

- Drunk couples who believe I will spice up their sex-lives. Shame on you! Well, this has only happened once, but it left me scarred for life.

Dadadada... Batman!

The Blowjob Master

Here it is, that strange piece I wrote from some days ago. I like the sexuality and the pain of it. I like its honesty.
---------------

The blowjob master

So, first you tell me that you like to play with people to see what they do, to see how they react. You say it’s fun. I say I don’t play with people, but I think we both know that isn’t true.
We talk a lot about different things. About movies and where you have been and music. You play me something from your music collection and I am patient, but all I want to do is rip off your clothes and fuck you senseless. I give off these vibes.
I think you catch them, but you are playing with me, so you disregard these vibes.
I look a lot at you, and I remind myself of that horrible guy with the make-up who just looked at me because he wanted to do with me what I want to do with you. Or that other guy with the glasses or that drunk couple that time.
I feel a little pathetic and I curse myself for not just taking hold of you and stick my tongue down your throat.
I tell myself that I am respectful now, but that is only an excuse.
You play the guitar for me, and your voice is deep and bass-like. My heart is racing and I want to tell you that you have seduced me a long time ago and that you can stop the show.
You have won me over from the moment I first saw you in the cold with the coat and the scarf.
But we keep on talking.
You lean over to find something, and your body is extended over mine, hovering like some taut mist over my stomach. Then you lower yourself down, and as your stomach hits mine, I am harder than I have ever been before
I think you can feel my rock-hard cock, but I am not sure.
You are playing with me, and I know it. But I don’t know what to do about it. Is this really the fun part?
I tell myself I am being respectful and I just enjoy it while it lasts, skin-against-skin separated only by your shirt and my sweater. I unconsciously strain my muscles.
Thinking about taking hold of you as you slip by, thinking about saying something like:” Hey, where the fuck do you think you’re going. I like your body on mine” or “Come back here. We are done with the playing.”
But I don’t. So you slip away.
You have told me I can stay the night, and you were very cute when you said it. Since I have decided to stay, I will wait and not jump at you like I want to. I fantasize faintly about what we are going to do all night, about our naked bodies under those sheets, about me laying close to you and my exhausted cock touching your ass and me smelling your black hair and holding around you.
So I wait, telling myself I am respectful.
You play me some of all your music. I play along, nodding, saying stupid things like:” I like this” and “this is nice” and “This isn’t really me” and all that other crap.
When we have finished the list, you suddenly come to me and we kiss. I am eager. You say:” Hey, hold your horses” and I said something I can’t remember, probably something stupid like:” Why?” or “I have waited so long” or “You make me really hot”.
We kiss. You say I am good. That makes me feel proud and I distantly hope you get as much out of this as I do. You have seemed calm the entire afternoon, but there have been just a few little hints that you are not. You are more familiar to this than I am and I analyze everything too much. I have told you that. It's not a secret.
We move, you moan, I don’t really make that much of sound. I feel and kiss, use my tongue and my hands and my fingers.
It’s really good.
I feel the weight of what the rest of this night and perhaps even tomorrow is going to be used for burn in every loin and knuckle and bone and joint.
You undress my shirt, kiss my nipples, softly touch my chest and shoulders. Then I sit on top of you and say:” I wanna unbutton your shirt.” And I do.
Then we kiss more, moving, dry-humping each other. I touch your cock from under the fabric of your pants. You are half-hard.
You unbutton my pants and take off my socks. The fact that you take off my socks only makes me want you all the more. You smile to me and I wonder how I ever could have lived without you and how mad I am right now, burned by sexual scourge.
I take off your pants and eat your cock that snakes around under the fabric of your boxer-shorts. I decide it is time and remove them. Then I remove mine.
We hump again, kissing, feeling. I distantly feel your touches do not reach as far as mine do. I take your ass, your stomach, your chest, your arms. But yours seems only to grace my body, hovering and softly squeezing.
You are not hard any longer and I go down and stars kissing your cock. I take it in my mouth, sucking, playing, licking. I feel really good about this. I feel like I am the master of blow-jobs because I am inventive and I am pretty sure you enjoy it. I wish you would to the same for me. But I do not want to push you.
You soon become wet. I dip my entire face into your increasing limb. You say:” Would you use your teeth? That makes me hard?” and I use my teeth. You moan. I feel good.
You whisper:” Don’t stop” and I don’t stop.
When you are hard I go up again and we turn and hump more.
I sit on top of you and move my hard cock over yours. It has shrunken again.
No problem. I just do the same as before.
When I get up again, you turn away from me.
I think maybe you are too excited. Afraid to say anything. Afraid to embarrass you or myself.
I ask, after eternities:” Is everything okay?” and I think you answer:” Yes”
Rest my hand on your shoulder to show you that I am not angry and I remain respectful. You seem to have closed your eyes. I recall that in the middle of our act you went to the toilet. I haven’t seen you drink anything in hours.
Don’t want to ask you why you have fallen to your side like this. Don’t want to acknowledge the pillow-valleys that separate us.
My head is on your shoulder and my arm is under your back and I guess it is kind of painful for you with my hard arm under your swaying back, but I don’t recall my arm because I don’t want to move.
You ask me softly:” Are you comfortable” and I say that I am, my mind racing. I too have shrunken now and I feel the wetness of my cock in full splendor, wishing deeply that this soon will pass, that the desert of sex and that its relentless dryness soon will fade.
But it doesn’t.
You start talking again and I faintly play along. You ask me how many I have had and I give a vague number, between five and seven I say. I ask you how many you have had and you say ten and I think that I wish I had more experience so I knew what the hell to do.
After a while I reach for my clock, finally done with the delicate dance of pre-sexual relations and deciding to speak openly.
You start to mutter something about this having happened before and that there are some you can make it with and some you cannot make it with and that it is purely a psychological thing.
I say that this kinda sucks. We don’t laugh at the pun and you agree. Thinking I did something wrong, did something too little or too much, being too eager, being too ready too fast.
Feeling ugly, feeling it is my fault.
You say that I am free to leave and faintly I ask you what is going to happen here. Nothing, you say.
And so I leave. You are kind and relaxed, following me down to the bus. When the bus comes I say a badly pronounced “bye” and sit down thinking now I at least have another experience under my belt where my cock ache.
When I get home I jerk off and I come after about two seconds, amazing amounts of cum flowing everywhere. But I can’t feel anything.
So then I wipe it all off…

Everything is going straight to hell...

I don't really like this blog right now so I'll try to make it a little more funky. Oh yes! I am not afraid to heighten the funk-meter on this blog! That's right, I went there.
From now on only sexy matters will be discussed here. Matters that makes you electric with wild abandon, matters of such delicious texture that you cannot resist.
Perhaps there will be pictures of hot people everyhwere...
Perhaps I'm getting really tiered with this facade...

Let's face it, the blog will remain as it is...

AAAAA!!! Everything is so fucking boring right now! Why does the world demand personal initiative for something to happen? That is just plain unfair! How can the world be unfair? That's unfair. The world should be rational and benevolent and everything we put into it we should get back and I should have a harem of a 1000 hot guys in my basement...
Shit, this day sucks!

There isn't much to say now, is it?

I wrote this strange erotic short-storyish thing yesterday that I thought I should post here, but then I have to transfer it from the computer downstairs and I just don't feel like doing that right now. It was too personal anyways, but no one would really know that unless I said it was personal so fuck me I guess...
Perhaps I'll post it later...

I have created a trailer for my book in my head and I want to draw it, so that was also something i started yesterday.

Many years have passed, and my love for that man remains the same...

http://www.washingtonpost.com/ac2/wp-dyn?pagename=article&node=&contentId=A5693-2002May24&notFound=true

I love you Alan Ball!

Odd, fishy, peculiar, strange, off beat, wierd, freakish...

I had a REALLY strange day yesterday. I have to digest it properly... Sooo wierd and kind of sad... Yeah, more sad than wierd...

So, who the fuck am I?

This is me. Since I am bored, I took this picture with our fabelous cam which I am sure my mother uses for mastrubation since she was so eager to buy it. I look smug in this picture. I don't know why I look smug since I have nothing to be smug about.
This annoys me greatly. I never look like me in any picture I have seen of me. Either my slightly arrogant, judging side is revealed, my juvenile, laughing side, my melancholic, symbolic, deep-thinker side, my sexual side(even though I haven't really seen many pictures containg this. It is usually reserved for places where there are no cameras...)
Why can't I be all these things at once? We can I only see either of these sides of my persona by itself, under the scrutiny of some microscope?
Lover, friend, son, brother, student.... I am seperating myself.
And that sucks!
It's like hearing your own voice recorded somewhere and you think:"Jesus, do I sound like that? How can people stand listening to me?" Or when a friend mimicks you in the crulest way EVER like som efemenate weirdo.
I don't know if I had a point with this post, I just wanted to empty my head( ha ha, empty my penis) which is the precise intention of this blog.
So there you are...

Just a quicky

About to go out to a friend to play Warcraft 3( I am a geek, wanna fight about it?)- She is a lesbian so that makes everything all the more enjoyable and politically correct. I just have to take a quick shower first.
Here is a joke that I just made up:

What do you call a penis-less man? A woman. Or a penis-less man.

?

Someone named Sepideh Faizbakhsh has called me at 10 in the morning... I don't know who this person is...Oh dear...

The world aflame with angelic ejaculate...

I sort of feel caught in a stasis trap today. Just immediately calm and focused, in a way. I thought a lot about my headache number one last night, and I know how to solve it now, at least partially. I got up in the middle of the night and wrote like 800 words on a sheet of paper, and the last paragraph of chapter 13 is halfways finished. Now I just have to write it.

On a completely different subject, the v-key on my keyboard is reluctant to work unless I push it really hard. That's annoying. It breaks the flow of things, but fortunately v is a letter not found in many words, so I guess I can stand some sort of fury.

The sky is really dead outside. The imagined textures of massive clouds have all been smeared with a brush, lines, boarders and shape lost in just a coating of lead. It rains, as well. And now I am looking out the window, thinking:" I have to go out soon." That is also somewhat annoying.

Chapter 8 - "Let me ease your pain"

I don't know why, but I just can't think of anything to write, so I thought about adding another fragment of my book. This is the start of chapter 8. I like it. I don't usually like what I write...
So, here it is....

He put on some music not able to bear the silence any longer. Just any music, he thought, just anything. He found a CD, pulled the disc out of its container and with shaking fingers inserted it in his player.
There was a small rattle before the hole in the middle of the CD fitted with the small, circular hook inside the player.The gentle sounds of a piano filled his dull living room, extending outwards to the broken shape he knew was behind his shoulder, the very shape he could not bear to look at, the very woman he idealized for some purpose he could not fully understand.For the thirtieth time he cursed himself for wearing the bath-robe which he knew made him look like a melted ice-cube. He tucked it around himself and made himself ready to turn.But he couldn’t.
The music swelled and the familiar voice of a woman set in, profound and painfully real.
“I love Tori Amos,” another female voice came from behind him. It was still, still like a tombstone, immovable like some tower of ice.
He turned. He was forced to now.Saw her, sitting there, slumped over his leather-chair, her legs seeming to shudder softly, her black dress unable to fill her flesh properly as it was intended, raw, naked places along her shoulders, her thighs and her arms poking out. Her skin was painfully white.
“What is this song called?” he asked stupidly, knowing perfectly well what it was called.
“Winter,” she whispered.Looking down. Unable to react. Uncertain what she wanted from him. Uncertain what to say, how to react to the fact that she was not only in his house but that she looked like she did.As if her skin was dripping off like small drops of milk and she was desperately trying to gather them with her delicate fingers and put them back on.
Shaken, obviously. Shaken as if she had stood alone against an avalanche. But she had gathered herself slightly now.
When he finally, drawing energy from the song that spilled into the room, managed to look up he saw misty shores under overcast skies, ripples spreading across the water.
“I don’t know why I came,” she finally whispered.
“That’s okay. We don’t always know what we are doing.”
Looking down again. Unable to hold her eyes for long. The black of the silk gathered around her heaving chest, a fine, delicate line between her breasts. No ornaments anywhere.The earring with the multi-colored glass not present.She fingered with her fingers, watching her pink nails.Nothing to say.
“I am sorry I said… What I said to you,” said she, still looking down. Hesitantly, searching like some blindfolded child through dark woods, snow falling. Mist coming out of the mouth and through the nostrils. Suddenly she looked more naked than he could ever believe another human being could appear, as if her flesh was removed, as if her sinews and muscle had been stripped. Only bones left, white as her hair.
“It’s okay,” he replied. Then, shortly after, he whispered:” I just wanted to find you.”
Her lips pursed together. A thin line. Tears gathering relentlessly in her eyes, her face falling off. Now, he thought, now she finally gives in and breaks.But to his great surprise she suddenly managed to get control of her collapsing body. The tears seemed to return into her eyes.
“And,” she whispered, nearly inaudible through he softening music,” I’m sorry I told you to jump. I don’t know you. I just…” Looking up.” Lose it, sometimes. Lose the lines, the boarders that define our lives.”
Not sure what exactly she was saying. Stopping the music. Too much. Turning something he hadn’t listened to before on, that miniscule moment of silence between the songs unbearable.Finally a thin line rose. Unsure what instrument it was. Something between organ and guitar, he thought. A soft beat of drums, thin riffs of guitar following. No voice. For now.She rose. The sound of the cloth was too much for him, like some great scream, like the bellows of a banshee from some spectral realm. Her hair was in motion. White. Pearl.He stood still. Unable to breathe.
She opened her mouth.No words came.Her lips formed around a million syllables, none adequate, each of them false, every word she knew in her great vocabulary unable to state what she felt. She mouthed again, desperate to speak and so incredibly unable.
“You don’t have to say it,” he whispered.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s what you don’t need to say...”
Moments later forces beyond their controls had squeezed them together. Walls of thickened air had slammed them into each other, air beaten out of their lungs. She took hold of his back through the rough fabric of the robe, seemed to ingest a great, thin needle and lock it into his spine, filling that thin membrane of marrow that was a canal through his back.He sucked her life into his lungs.
Singing now.
A man.
The dress fell off without any thought or action as if it had been held up solely by her willpower alone. And now she let go.Her skin was cold.The robe fell.Both naked, held together by magnetic attraction that was powered by the unsettling tunes from the music, those eerie, beautiful waves of particle logic that numbed their bodies in a web of matrixes of shiny green.On the carpet.Sucking life, fingers forcing themselves into hands, grasping as if holding on for dear life, whispering words, inaudible, but in reality the name Ely, Ely repeated again and again on her ashen lips.There were tears. But their tears mingled.So it did not matter.His warm hands casting her on the other side, she moving with him, then alone and then with him again, moving so much faster than the music.They were twisting, raw animal passion or raw human pain powering their tiered bodies, taking hold of them and throwing them around on the floor.
“A condom,” she gasped.
He stormed to the bedroom, falling as he stumbled on the way, forcing open drawers in madness, spreading underwear and socks across the bed. Hysterical. The thought of not finding one unbearable, the thought of another second without her even more so.
A flash of red plastic forced him to dig deeper. Finding one.
Turning.
She was there. Not able to wait.Her arms like branches of some tree in winter seemed to lift him and throw him on the bed. Condom on. He entered her.They swallowed each others moans. Gasps.Turning, friction.
Flesh sparking against flesh, hands in hands, key in lock. Moving, kinetically part of an every expanding universe. A universe filled with spies, with demons, with evil.
And beauty.
The music became like echoes from underwater as they were drowning, she pulling him under, six feet under, he pushing away rocks and mould, digging their graves, moving their ever-turning bodies into a dance in the earth, worms and roots entangling them in another web of threads like silver and crystal.Force shook through them, pure, undestilled force that made them crazy, mad by the scourge.
Pace quickened. Tears. Sweat.
Teeth meeting teeth, gnashing against gums, blood prickling down their bodies, tiny, slender rivers of blood. Sucking it up, licking it on their tongues.Tasting iron. Tasting copper.Tasting life.
Nails gritting on skin, digging into the backs, into the rumps, into the sexes, forcing forth the earth-shattering inferno that brought all to life ages ago in one, maddening spark.
Nearer.Running away now, spies everywhere, pain.
Too afraid to have their eyes open, too afraid of what they might see. Creatures hidden in boxes in their teary pupils, dread and fury in the wrinkles around the eyes.Falling into the core of the molten earth.Unable to breathe. The world was too heavy. Mountains over them, Norse mountains of ancient times with snow that never melted. Earthy pinnacles spread higher still, piercing the carpet of rainy clouds, the enormous weight crushing their chests, compromising their lungs to minimal sizes.
Unable to breathe.
Lungs afire.Drowning in soggy mould. Drowning in blood. Drowning in each others tears.But nearer still. So infinitely nearer.And so. Music higher. Deeper. Resonating the strings that held the neutrons and protons together, each tiny atom suddenly shaking, the cries extending to the molecules, breaking their DNA’s to pieces as well as their skin.


The end.
The end. Everything. Everythingeverythingeverything. Everything. There, right there in the tear that ran from his cheek. She licked it away before… screaming. She screamed so loudly it seemed the world had ended. Still no eye-contact, both of them afraid regardless of what their bodies shared. Afraid of spies that might see them and what they felt. Paranoia about paranoia.
The music swelled to unbelievable heights, their voices merging, the voice of the man singing, nearly shouting the words as the guitars shook in resonance. They were uncertain if it was one of them, both of them, the man singing or all three who screamed the words:” Let me ease your pain”. But it was all.
“Let me ease your pain!” they cried from the bottom of their beings. “Let me ease your pain”.
And then there could be no doubt what the words that created the universe were.They were the words: “Let me ease your pain.”
“Let me ease your pain,” the man on the CD screamed in perfect unison with the woman with the white hair and the man with the yellow notebook.Let me ease your pain. A breath. A whisper.…Tonight

Dear Sir.

I have been an avid fan of this site since it's birth for some odd days ago, and I must say that it has given me much joy and laughter, since I after all am a funny person who do enjoy humor. Especially I enjoy humor of the underdeveloped kind. It's like having sex with a child from the third world...
But, dear Sir, I am afraid to say that you have gone too far.
In your recent post, you described, in quite gratuitous detail the horrible crime of ... Well, I cannot make myself recreate it in any way. I can see that this post has been deleted, whether it is of your own intent or some sort of censorship I cannot say, but it is deleted nonetheless and I hope you have come to the conclusion that it was overly unnecessary, perhaps much as this letter which only takes up the time of the people reading it...

Yours truly,