New Year

So on New Years Eve, I drank a lot, dance a lot, and ultimately felt like it was way too soon for 2010. Why is it that every single moment time passes, we regret that it's passed, or someone else wishes that the future would come sooner?

Inevitably time is fixed and in place. Time is what kills us in the end, not the other way around.

2011 came around with a whisper, not a bang. It came with a quiet apprehension, with sullen blinking and questioning as the previous year passed away.

Years are trivial; time is absolute. So we follow the sun, but not every sun is the same.

---

These are merely sketches from my agenda. They make quite nice additions to the bland books that govern my every day life. Sometimes I wish for the day when I no longer need an agenda, where I can choose to do things as they come... but I have a feeling that as I grow older, I will only be able to need it more.

This is the Angelus realm, Aethahara city, and the Daemon realm I call Lantelin, near Bellione's keep.

I always seem to draw this tree. A large, gnarled tree with white leaves that form almost a canopy of snow, with jewels that are the fruits of knowledge hanging heavily off the branches. Here is a woman nursing a child. Maybe this is symbolic?

A dead man's playground. There is a snippet of a poem on the bottom, cut out for private reasons.

If the world ends, I want to be able to watch the sunset one last time before I go.

---

“Come,” he said roughly.

And she did, following his rough fingers and lips and teeth, fingers wound in his like clockwork in a marching toy soldier. He slid hands in her hair, plucking them like he would an instrument’s strings, or skeins of silk, and their eyes met as she followed.

Pleasure creased from their touch. It was as simple as that, and only so much more they could voice. He took her to a corner of the world where eyes couldn’t reach, lowering her beneath him on fur and in the light of fire.

There was no dance, no wait, no hesitation. Hastily he tore the clothing from his shoulders, and she unbuttoned the cloth swathed around her breasts. Touches and groans were interchanged between rustling of fabric, and she mumbled, “Hurry.”

“Beg.”

“Please.”

Flesh met flesh; he slid inside of her to the hilt, sheathed in her velvet warmth, and they moaned together. She was already wet, running like a river, soft and malleable and heated beneath his skilled hands. Teeth met skin, lips met tongue; they fought and embraced and fought again, his timed thrusts increasing with fervour. She arched, angled, flew to meet him, frissons of pleasure and pain undulating between the folds of her dark curls, and he howled like a beast, satiated.

“Look,” he whispered, sometime later, cradling her in his arms. “It shines on us. For us.”

The moon was full, the moon was bright. It blinded the lovers in their pervasive silence, hands laced, blood cooling, and she sighed into his lips.

“You are my nightmare,” she breathed to him, and he grinned with dagger teeth.