The Sock-Monkey As Alone

Shaping shadows with the flickering light from candles cast in the mold of a human spines, the tone of her blue skin was bruised dead with green and yellow sharing a history of secrets spoke softly. Pale with her ribs showing each well-earned breath. Reluctant in the corner of her bedroom, squirming, forceful as a darkness reluctant towards revelation and being trapped.     The walls lined with family photos showing a couple and their child. Her husband watching her, however, the one bar prison between her legs was a cage for both of them and he unable to have satisfaction watched her fight off pleasure and shame in equal measure. Ankles cuffed too and trapping inside her cunt the seven-inch vibrator that coiled around inside her like a snake that could never find its way Eve's heart. The ball gag in her mouth, and a blindfold over her eyes. Her husband chad cupped one of her small breasts and watched with satisfaction as she pushed against it. The muffled sounds of her ...

Being wrong is being alive illusive reductions of sharing an ambiguous gospel,   good news for those who have lost there way. being right may very well lead to "skillful behavior." Where consciousness points to homo-Ludens. And the wherewithal, to go at what I have learned. The aesthetic stance of alpha males,   is that people being afraid to tell you that your wrong     is nothing but a sign of superior intellect. So where is my pride when I lie to your face?   I believe what I believe no matter what I say. but the resonance of rapture   like an umbilical cord  lets connection be made till they are cut.