Blood Of Life

At night I listen to the sounds of sirens in the dark. Goodnight 19th century lights, good night honest media under starry nights. Bourbon for the new media, under the glow of digital lights simulating life. If they going to act drunk, they might as well be drunk. Goodnight to the old century life, with the young wives in wooden shoes saying fare well to the man going off to fight with Napoleon before Waterloo. Singing old folk tales, drowning in the flow of cheap Alsatian wine. For as one drifts from the nineteenth century, one embarks into the world of the twenty first.

Back in the old days type meant the girls you would choose to go the Guillotine Dance, yet now in the new world type meant what button you pressed in order to score a hot date on the net. That's just not my type! All that remains is lust after girls in wooden shoes, under the glow of oil lamp lights, visiting Spain and bringing home Chorizo for rich stews made by their submissive husbands: Chorizo, Olives, and Mushrooms. Goodnight chorizo soup, goodnight all that is good in the scoop.

Though I seek dates on social media, a part of me realizes there is no chance of finding someone. To be frank, I simply like watching women suck dick to much on anime picture streams. There is nothing better than showing affection to some girl that doesn't really exist, outside of the net. They can't reject you, and they don't stink like dead girls. Or zombies on cheap 90s splatter fest. Yet they never wear form fitting jeans, or especially roll their tongue up of the shaft.

It's easier to get distracted by sex.

So watch a movie about the current president dressed as Punky Daft. That will kill a hard on faster than real life chick on THC. Though my kinks have changed, in most cases it still revolves around heads severed on guillotines, rolling beside women's feet, women in Boston Clogs. Or for the block, those tumbling locks for women in GDMPODRSEMPN I long for the blood.

Carefully trimmed hair down to the chin of the face.

The rest is history, the history de Historie.

I had issues with girls with braids for a long time, though I'm not exactly sure why. Perhaps it is me that things they represent a false kind of innocuous. Every time I looked at them it is a feeling of being betrayed. I wanted to see the cutie felled like a French girl. I lived to see their heads fall off their necks, watching as the eyes go blank before me. To masturbate to their blood, to their death.

To the girl with her head....

It is only a kink, nothing more. Though people have told me everyone has kinks, it's easier for me to fall into moments of shame. It is only recently that I had began to accept my disposition, as the sentient program in transposition. I traveled through moments in history, on some level to say I'm sorry, to change how things turn out. Knowing fool well that I am to passive to be any kind of decent protagonist, except that's not how anything works. I am the protagonist of my own story. At times said kinks bite you in the ass, like when you accidentally imagine a girl who went through so much abuse lose her head. One wishes a better end for her instead.

The story of my kinks.

The story of my kinky life.

Watch as I dine in the blood life.

For life is only a game.


Fairy Dust



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