Autobiography 01

THe nameless one stared drunkenly at the screen, the words appearing before hei in a torrent led by his fingers. Finger that knew and spoke the truth that his soul was afraid to speak. Words that spoke to his pain and loneliness and desperation.

His mind was elsewhere trapped in the velvet fog of too much alcohol. It was bound in sheets and blankets. Tied down with pieces of rope to her. Her naked body writing against his. It was a memory of his youth when bondage was a magic trick, escape always possible. The tantalizing glimpse of her naked self a hint older than his.

His mind is trapped in his rape by a lesbian, his second encounter, unwilling but her soft breasts yielding magnificently under his fingers, her juicy pussy willing and eager and yet not for him, never for him.

He wants, he years, his first encounter consummated but never completed sex with orgasm; need without joy. Fast and brutal and everything and yet sadly nothing. Rending a friendship through need and passion. Long glorious hair, soft magnificent bosoms. He lusts, he demands he controls but yet he still doesn't cum.

A rape demanded and desired. A woman he wants, he needs, he yearns. She demands it. Take her by force, rape her, own her, control her, throw her down and degrade her. She is his slut, his whore, his mynx. She wants to be his sex slave. She wants to be controlled, possessed but still he wants more.

It is never enough, the soft bodies and the welcoming holes. They all exclaim love and devotion and eternal fidelity but still there is more. There is something missing, something desired beyond all else.

Time is a cruel master, It is a disobedient servant. It promises much but delivers nothing.

Pain and hope linger. One complimenting and destroying the other.

The future promises. Hope, dreams of tomorrow yet to come, soft bodies cleaving together, the old cloven apart. Holding tight to the hope of the future, More! The soft breasts meant to suckle, used to suck. The future, the hope of tomorrow, lust and the hope to avoid destruction. The hope of tomorrow to never die.

The unending desire of ages consummated in flesh.

Flesh continuing after after death.

Flesh living for tomorrow.

Flesh that perpetuates itself and so never dies.

The nameless one wants this. Needs this. Desires this.

The nameless one needs to know that though his name may die, his flesh may die, that he will continue.

Life goes on and proceeds. Generation after generation. Life remembering life and carrying on besides, along and with.

Truth passes on and tells the story. It remembers those that have gone by and passed on. A little bit carries on from generation and year to year and generation.

The truth holds fast and remembers the lust and the soft touches. The hope for the future and the need from the past.

The nameless one looks ahead. He knows he has no name. He knows he has no love. He knows he has no future.

And yet he hopes.

He hopes that the slaves of other masters,

The the fruit of tree which were untimely picked,

Will yield to him a bounty, fruit that descends and remembers,

A life, a love, a hope. Passing life from line to line, descent to descent and tree to tree.

The nameless one needs to know that his inadequate and damaged, cancerous and illbegoten seed will bear fruit.

Fruit that will pass through the ages. Sucking on nurturing teats, giving life to things beyond imagining and beyond hope.

Life continues on, spreading across the globe, lifting off to the spheres and embracing the stars. Star by star, life expands gathering hopes and dreams.

Life spreads among the cosmos. Panspermia. Life of a life from life. Father of one father of all. Life spreads without measure, without end containing the roots of it's beginning.

Life, sex, the penis driving into the vagina delivering the seed the hope of all. A drop, a drib, a drab, the tiniest amount, the smallest hope, the most infinitesimal. Will it be remembered? Will it carry on?

Life continues in pieces. This is remebered and that is forgotten. Life knows where it carried on from.

Does it remember it's past? Does it remember the forgotten which helped it carry on?

Sex is life and life is sex.

Does it know?

Remember?

There is that which is past.

There is that which does not carry on.

There is that which allows the future but has no part in it.

The nameless one stares drunkenly at his screen and hopes, that somehow, he will be known.