An Erotic Exposition in Print Between M and R.
In a fast paced world, in fast paced lives, in fast paced minds, there lives something instinctive, eternal. With a suffocating and deceptive air of ephemera, it disappears. Evanescence's from the surface, but lingers in our lives like noise, ceaselessly permeating our ears, or like our skin, constantly sensing the world around us. This lingering, yet transient, force burrowed, rooted, stowed, and ingrained within our being has become a crippled and feeble wraith, of its former omnipotence: an omnipotence which propagated the human race, created men who made ships to traverse the seas, created man who made planes to traverse the skies, created man who made rockets to traverse the planets. Man, also, created word. In man's glory, in man's conquering of the the area around them, man created language to traverse time, traverse dreams, traverse reality. Traverse the unobtainable, and allow those with the ability too, to create that which does not exists.
This wraith, through discourse, buried in the soul, of the fast paced lives of man, can become free. It can suckle on the teat of moist and fertile perspicacity, to regain its omnipotence. And once again flourish, but in the realm of language. Writing and language can give a voice and body to lust, to desire. Give it its omnipotence, and through stories allow it to flourish in a way that it cannot in the real world. A way that has been oppressed by society. In writing, is where we can transmogrify a cacophony of inward lust, into an ecstatic portrayal of humanities unrequited yearnings for the carnal knowledge of those around us. A knowledge for their scent, their sex. The cry of their voice as they writhe in pleasure and pain. The vivid sexuality of their body as they helplessly grin on the hand that beats them. The animalistic abandon of thought, at the peak of sensuality. Our writing is not an attempt to capture, recreate, or embody the titan that would be the breadth of human sexual desire. But merely offer a portion. To offer a single a bead of sweat rolling down the breasts, and over the chest of the embodiment of humanities carnal desires. To offer taste of R&M's personal exploration in the realm of lust, love, sex, and sensuality. And to give some small power and voice once again to the all too long caged wraith, that has become obscured over-run and over-looked; in a fast paced world, in fast paced lives, in fast paced minds, where there lives something instinctive, eternal.
This wraith, through discourse, buried in the soul, of the fast paced lives of man, can become free. It can suckle on the teat of moist and fertile perspicacity, to regain its omnipotence. And once again flourish, but in the realm of language. Writing and language can give a voice and body to lust, to desire. Give it its omnipotence, and through stories allow it to flourish in a way that it cannot in the real world. A way that has been oppressed by society. In writing, is where we can transmogrify a cacophony of inward lust, into an ecstatic portrayal of humanities unrequited yearnings for the carnal knowledge of those around us. A knowledge for their scent, their sex. The cry of their voice as they writhe in pleasure and pain. The vivid sexuality of their body as they helplessly grin on the hand that beats them. The animalistic abandon of thought, at the peak of sensuality. Our writing is not an attempt to capture, recreate, or embody the titan that would be the breadth of human sexual desire. But merely offer a portion. To offer a single a bead of sweat rolling down the breasts, and over the chest of the embodiment of humanities carnal desires. To offer taste of R&M's personal exploration in the realm of lust, love, sex, and sensuality. And to give some small power and voice once again to the all too long caged wraith, that has become obscured over-run and over-looked; in a fast paced world, in fast paced lives, in fast paced minds, where there lives something instinctive, eternal.
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