Monday, June 30, 2008


My mortality lies heavy on my shoulders, weighing me down, clinging gleefully to my bowed spine, fingers tipped with the broken detritus of youth and dreams, gouging and digging for the last vestiges of hope.

Tomorrow will come despite my denial, yet another day in a dreary line of broken promises that stretch behind me in a winding grey trail of things that were not. I dread the dawning of the morning and do not look forward to the flaming orb of sun that proclaims the triumph of time and ticking away of my mortality.

As I face the reality of another year, I cannot find it in me to find the prospect enlightening or pregnant with possibility; rather, despair envelops me as i contemplate yet another dreary day bleeding into the fabric of my life.

52 years!

I stand appalled at the sheer volume of moments and seconds and days and years that have etched on this tired body the vicissitudes of a life half lived. I search within myself for that small glimmer of hope, that moment of truth that gives this life some modicum of meaning.

I am often surprised to listen to the vivid memories that others often have of their youth. I had a good youth - at least I think so - parents who loved me, a houseful of siblings, lots of travels and adventures. Yet, memories are scarce and like a half-finished sketch, have no depth or detail.

I remember certain things.

A silly conceit, but it as if my life began when I first met him, for memories from then are rich and vibrant and resonate down the many years with a freshness that sometimes delights, and other times stings ...

The first time I made love. The room close and stuffy, television sounds trickling and droning on the other side of the wall, his body, hard and thin and so eager ... the feel of him, hot, throbbing and the way my mind flamed with excitement and need and want and the look on his face when the realization of my first time dawned....

I remember him walking me home that hot summer night with the fireflies winking in the velvet dark and the stars blazing and my legs, like a colt's, trembling, my thighs sticky and smeared with the reality of our passion and how breathless, how utterly wonderful it all seemed and the night danced around me and enveloped my new body in its warm, dark embrace and I was joyous ...

I remember many wonderful moments on my 8 month backpack journey to Europe - seeing the Acropolis for the first time.... the deep aqua blue-green of the Greek sea.... how the pristine, sanitized camp at Dachau was so utterly ominous and pressed around us as if the voices and spirits of the murdered called out for vengence all these years later. i remember the quirky, wonderful canals of Amsterdam, and the incredibly breathtaking beauty of the walled city of Florence with its bronze boar in the middle of the marketplace, his nose striking gold in the sunlight which spilled down from the hot blue of an Italian sky...

I remember the fluttering of the first signs of life in my belly and the absolute awe with which i greeted the birth of each child.

What i do not remember is when i began to loathe and detest the anniversary of my birth. It was a very long time ago --- so unrelated to age - as i rack my mind, I think and what comes to mind is a 21st birthday party, a momentous and important birthday for an Irish lass - and he was not there ....

All I know is that the pit opens as the day approaches and I dread it with a superstitious, dragging despair which overwhelms me with anxiety. I want to hide away and blink and open my eyes to find the day gone and though time still marks the minute moments of my life away, i can face it again with equanimity and a reluctant acceptance of its implacable march.

And i do remember despair and betrayal and hatred and yet through it all, I loved and love.

Despite the gloom and doom which descends on me, I know I would be with no one else except him; that even as i fight the demons that seek to drown me in pessimism and despair, I seek enlightenment in the one constant in my life- my love for him. That one true emotion, no matter the battles we fought, the hurts we inflicted, that love, remains constant and true and I grasp at the possibility of hope it holds out to me....

Tomorrow i work, as i do most statutory holidays and always, if I can manage it, on this day.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

The Sound of Your Body

not mine - but finbar's - (Let the wild rumpus begin) - I think (prejudiced of course) but he is friggin brilliant ... the imagry is so fresh, the twist of phrase so unique .. enjoy

your sea opens and surges
as my fingers drink in
the silver of your eyes.

the savannas of your voice
heave and roll, then
flow me from colour to sound
as the muffled fathoms of
my hands hold the multitude of you
in soft enfolding palms, as your
breasts and eyes calm
the earth to liquid.

the frailty of your sighs
drift me from texture back
to sound as the vision of my
touch swims the gold
of your desire.

your cresting waves
lift me from sound to motion
as the grace of your hips
undulates your body from texture
to vision, and fills the air with spice,
as my drifting arms encircle
the aqua tide of your lips.

the taste of each breath
draws me to your depth,
then you gasp me in
and stroke me from scent
to substance, as my body climbs
the light of your surrounding sea

Tuesday, June 24, 2008


Time trickles away in a stream of granular want that appals with the rapidity of its disappearing promise. I want to reach and stop the fading away of hope and maybes but the implacable reality of concrete nots entangles me in questions and confusion until I blink and waken as if from a dream (nightmare?) and see the reflection of someone else in the image in the window.

In the distance, mist shrouds the city’s spine, softening soaring linear realities of glass and steel, licking gentleness into the wavering panorama of fortitude and want. The street below streams a black concrete river of motion bearing the hurrying crowd of wannabe stroke victims on its sinuous path of destruction.

Hazy and insubstantial, my reflection wavers uncertainly in the morning wash of fire and light. The lake breathes indigo in the distance, then gathers and explodes into the orb of light which struggles to escape from its embrace. Light and dark, fire and the cool breath of deep water clash and in the agony of birth, the morning is born …

I feel a suppressed violence inside the confines of flesh and body and a restlessness which nibbles at my iron reserve to stay within the stillness of self-restraint. Vibrating, I yearn toward the river of sky and marvel as light chases dark into the realm of another world and lays claim, in an inferno of liquid gold and deep crimson, to mine.

The intensity calls to me, that deep, secret part of me, the violence arousing, piquant and delicious. I yearn toward that angry sky and feel my breasts swell, the pale tips blushing pink then crimson. Between my thighs, I feel a throbbing, a warm, wet wanting and sigh.

How many years have I felt that throbbing need? That pulsing, damp want that clouds my mind and reaches into the atavistic part of my id to curl demanding fingers into my soul and incite in me an elemental lust. I feel a thing of dripping swollen flesh and warm wet folds which swell and dampen and call to the need between my thighs for stiff want and the battering harshness of being taken.

Not for me softness or sweetness and the soft, butterfly hovering kiss of tentative questioning pleading. I want hands tangled in crimson curls, tugging at the roots and inciting me into thrashing rage and lust and hot need. I want to feel teeth fasten on my shoulder, the hot, wet battering realness of personified demand thrusting harshly into the swollen softness and clinging hotness of my reality. I want to be breached, taken, conquered, no quarter given, no surrender possible.

I am not a soft creature but one borne from warriors and berserkers, from a people created of passion and anger and explosive emotional angst. And time has not softened the intensity.

I wonder and wait as time erodes the planes and curves of my body, as it etches experience into smoothness of flesh while gravity exerts its implacable pull. I rail at the reality of the erosion of youth and descry the inevitability of its destruction …yet, yet, as I look out from eyes still green as spring, I feel inside the hot, molten need rise again and again …and each month brings with it the promise of life and each morning when I take him in my mouth and feel the throbbing salty reality of his demand, I feel the hot throbbing want and am young again …

Slowly, in the east the angry crimson of the sun lightens then turns amber then a sheer golden radiance of hope. Night flees and thunders on dark hooves to the west and the restless lake’s whispering navy voice reflects back the cerulean blue of a dawning sky …

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

I want a bumper sticker

from Feministe


I'm running away to join the circus.... one with no live animals as I boycott those ones.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

archives...something I don't have.

not having archived is something I regret enormously.

1000SharpPieces ( is smarter- and has archived rather than deleted; oh how I wish I had been as smart! Her pithy, often amusing, often insightful and provocative writings should be available for future readers ...

I am a long-term blogger. I started on EFX seriously blogging and was there for a very long time. Losing the wealth of material I accumulated there was unfortunately beyond my control as the website crashed and burned. I, along with a very large number of prolific writers were largely left bereft - apart from those smart souls that had backed up their material.

Then onto Yahoo - where first I lost a great deal of material first, when my blog was stalked and taken over, and then when I msyelf deleted it in a passionate moment of repudiation .... losing in the process writings I will never be able to duplicate and for which I mourn deeply.

I do not feel at home here on blogger yet and not sure if I ever will. At one point for some length of time I had an erotic story site here on blogger - Selkie's Salacious Scrawls - which languished largely unread despite VERY positive reviews by sites such as Adult Blog Hub. Finally, in a frenzy made up equally of anguish, anger, disgust and despair, I deleted it in its entirety, in the process losing not blogs but creatures of my heart and soul - my stories, gone, never to be read or enjoyed or seen again.

For me, my stories were small beacons of hope in the reality of a grey world; reminders that once I was a writer - that the sum total of selkie was more than cooking, cleaning, labouring at a dead-end job ... they were small little nuggets that I would hold and savour and use to remind myself that I existed outside my usefulness as employee or parent, as an individual who wrote fairly well...

Now they are gone and the spark to write seems to have departed with it.

Certainly, I find my blogging completely uninspiring and do not doubt for an instance that like the whisper of silk, should it disappear it would neither be mourned nor missed. I write at all becuase I yearn to feel that spark, the burning need to put words to paper that I used to feel. I write (albeit infrequently) becuase I keep trying to convince myself that if I force the words, if I vomit forth even the paltry excuse for prose that I do, that somehow, somewhere, somewhen, I will find my soul.

I read Buffalo ( (who denigrates his own considerable talent and should NOT), his ability to charm his readers, invite them for a moment in time into his world, but most of all his incredible gift of being able to truly see the world around him, to find in the day-to-day realities of our lives, the nuggets of wonder that exist but are so often ignored, glossed over and missed by less perceptive individuals and which reminds each of his many readers to stop for a moment and really experience the world around them ...

I read Beth ( and it is like reading a novel you can't put down... intimate glimpses into her life, her thoughts and her emotions together with a formidable writing skill make Beth a fascinating, emotionally intense and superlative storyteller ....

I read elise ( ... with her rich tapestry of imaginative stories, her teasing glimpses, suggestive and intriguing, into her life, her incredibly prolific and provocative prose which enraptures and delights and provides such wonderful rich worlds to explore ...

And there are others I visit regularly and see in their insight and their passion, in their ability to put to "paper" thoughts and weave into the tapestry of this medium a fascinating blend of story and prose, of poetic forays and intimate glimpses ... and I despair ..

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Forced lactation

On Fet lately, I've been reading several threads about submissives and/or their Masters wanting forced lactation as part of their service. I realize there is a fairly big kink out their for women with milky breasts but perhaps coincidentally, both submissives I read regarding this subject were very young (from my perspective anyway).

Now, I breast fed my kids - probably, among the four of them for a total of more than 6 years as duration of breastfeeding ranged from a minimum of a year to a maximum of almost 2 (in fact, a wee bit over). I LOVED it - apart from the benefits to the child, I found it immensely satisfying to me on an emotional and dare I say, even spiritual level. It also provided me some very important personal time with each baby- something in short supply as I had 4 kids in less than 6 years.

But reading these journals, I thought to myself that therein speaks individuals who really do not understand what is involved in breastfeeding.

First, without the pregnancy hormones, it is very difficult to force lactation and many women must take some form of hormone therapy (with all the attendant side effects) to get the milk flowing. Without that, using manual methods such as suctioning etc, a tremendous commitment of time is involved - because it has be done frequently, often and for extended periods in order to successfully induce lactation; realistically, that would be difficult for most people who have jobs, school, family commitments, etc.

Now, once the individual is successful and her breasts start to fill with milk, what then?

Again, nursing, nursing, nursing and/or express, express, express.... becuase milk production is ultimately, a demand and supply process - the more a baby (or Master) nurses, the more milk is produced. Cut the nursing (or the expressing) and LESS milk. So, that means, regardless of whether either party "feels" like it, nursing or expressing MUST take place every day and probably several times a day - no matter what the schedule.

So again, given a nice full supply of milk is available and ongoing - think then about other repercussions. I know that when breastfeeding, my breasts had an unfortunate tendency to react to ANY baby's cry LOL - so I could be standing in line at a grocery store, a baby several aisles over will cry and BOOM, down comes the milk....

Because for the uninformed, milk doesn't just drip out (although it can, if the breasts are uncomfortably swollen), but is "let down". There are these little ducts that encircle the nipples which act as little "damns" .... when the brain signals, then the damns open - simplistic but effective. Nursing will do that, but so too can triggers (such as the one mentioned above). This means wearing a lot of protection simply as a precaution - I always had to wear pads in my bras to deal with this issue of let down and even so, there were times when the front of my shirt was soaked. Again, for the uninitiated, when breasts DO let down, they SPRAY... released to the air, I've had spray go several feet... and a LOT of fluid can result in quite a mess!

Yet another quirk is that once established, a woman tends to 'let down' eaiser and easier ... which means any manipulation of the breasts can induce the milk to flow ... not always a desirable outcome when involved in other pursuits and not focused on that particular desire.

There is also the issue of sore nipples - which obviously is not insurmountable but care must be taken and patience exerted while the tender breasts (yes, even masochist ones) get used to the chafing!

I think the biggeset impediment to consider is the ongoing effort which would be required in order to maintain lactation - the reality is that constant and regular nursing or expressing has to be done, no matter what the schedule, inclination and/or desire.

Now I could be wrong, but I think many of those who find the concept of a lactating submissive provcative and desirable, really have not thought through the realities ... and both parties have to seriously look at the commitment of time, effort and weight the benefits against the possible side effects.

While not my kink, I don't see the harm in forced lactation either but I do think some serious thought has to go into ALL the repercussions before decided to go that route!

Tuesday, June 10, 2008


sometimes I am, you know - a bitch.

I am moody, discontented and have a difficult time articulating what the hell is bugging me .... thus leaving the ones who love me confused and anxious.

I feel restless and move agitated limbs in denial of my inner demons which mutter and growl in the confines of my fettered emotions. I feel rage course along my veins like a toxic river of want, a bubbling cauldron of heat that burns like a highway into hell and stings me with its bite, thus tethering me to the knowledge that I am alive.

Rage I can deal with … anger is an old friend, dare I say even, much-loved, whose fetid breath I learned a very long time ago to tolerate and even enjoy.

For embracing anger – particularly self-directed anger - allows me the conceit of ignoring despair … and I don't do despair very well.. in fact, I refuse to and instead fan the embers which glow red hot at the bottom of the void where once a soul lived, eaten a long time ago by an anger and disllusionment so massive that only a black hole now pulsates negative energy into my body.
There's no question that I am a genius at misdirection, both in terms of self-delusion and by deliberately misleading those who interact with me - I find myself endlessly fascinated by how much conversation, deliberations and revelations occur inside my mind - and how little is actually articulated.

There is a certain ironic humour in the fact that whenever the concept of D/s or M/s arises, the term "communication" is paramount. Communicate, communicate, communicate ... bleating like little lambs as if the formation of sentence and structure and thought will solve it all.

Yet, knowing this, I find myself unmotivated to change - which in itself, is somewhat worrisome - for the rational part of me knows that to continue to suppress emotions which potentially have a devastating effect on my life is ultimately self-defeating. I need to deal with issues - not suppress them, ignore them or beat them into submission!

But conversely, it seems to me that vomiting forth justifications, delusions and explanations does not usually solve a damn thing; in hindsight, revelation can really suck the big one. In fact, my experience has been in many cases that such disclosure inevitably brings disllusionment, angst and profound sorrow ....

So, for now anyways, I will savour the reality of rage and drink deep its bitter brew.

Monday, June 9, 2008


Outside, smoky yellow air eddies in a miasma of cloying heat around a reality of steel and soaring girder, dripping smoky fingers around realities of red pavement and the muted green of summer want. I lay my forehead against the cool glass, my reflection faded and smudged around the edges, counterpart to my thoughts and the aching and confusion of my tired heart.

I feel disembodied and removed from the silky expanse of glass and the glaring fluorescent demands behind my back. Strident voices, wanting, demanding, asking, begging, yelling … all wanting a piece of this battered spirit. Anchored heavily to the yearning earth, I am shackled to other wants and other needs, imprisoned by heavy ropes of demand. Inside, I feel my spirit wailing – a thin thready sound, barely perceptible … a muted, plaintive cry, lost in the clamouring needs of dreary reality.

I watch the drifting clouds of humid air embrace the figures which move sluggishly through its sticky embrace, limbs slow, sheened with sweat and exertion engendered by the detritus of a world destroyed by ignorance and wiful blindness.

I am finding it so difficult to find that reason to get up these days … to face each morning only to plod wearily through dreary day after dreary day. There is no spark, no urgency to push me from my troubled sleep and face yet another tedious reality of endless repetition and pointless meanderings.

I feel self-loathing for the state of my body, and my inability to maintain it in a manner I find comfortable. I feel betrayed on so many levels by the physical reality of me – a failure on so many counts that the spirit quails at the extent of my perfidy. Betrayed by its gross appetite for undermining the delight of corporeal reality, betrayed by the fading memory of lustful want, betrayed by a sluggish inability to garner will to change the course of destruction it seems intent on grasping.

I read the words of my stories and it is as if some former persona had inhabited this shell and now, without conscious thought, has been cast from my body and sent into the whirling cesspool of perhaps. Despite the greasy heat which breathes its fetid breath along my trembling swollen flesh, the sweet, clean, astringent dampness of my former desire is a fading memory, mourned with an intensity that sears regret and despair into the very fabric of the reality around me.

I am a big strapping Celt, big boned, strong so why today do I feel so fragile? Most of the time I vacillate from a rage almost incendiary in its strength then plunge suddenly into a pit of despair, so cloying my chest contracts in agony and there is a vast universe of hopelessness that overwhelms.

I think despair is worse than rage.

At least with rage, you can feel it - it courses along your veins like a toxic river of want, a bubbling caldron of heat that burns like a highway into hell and reminds you with the sting and rip of its bite that you are still alive.

While despair ...despair blankets a spirit with hopelessness that settles over your face and mouth, cloying, invasive, filling nose and mouth and throat until your lungs labour and contract in agony as you try to take a breath and instead, feel the blanket of anguish envelop you

I grasp instead my anger to me like a much-loved child and pull it into my body and sinew and muscle and gulp in the searing heat of its embrace with a fatalistic acceptance of what is to be.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Drama -101

I detest drama ....

I hate the artificial escalation of situations which could easily be resolved or explained with simple explanations and measured common sense. I find the net is particularly bad for drama - in one way, I assume the relative anonymity lends itself to those who have a flair for the dramatic.

One after all, can create mayhem, be rude, ignorant, create drama, hurt, rend and simply destroy ...and say "sorry", act sad, act regretful and start all over again.

People are ALLOWED to have different perspectives.

People are ALLOWED to disagree with opinions and viewpoints.

People are ALLOWED to express THEIR opinions in response to something someone else expressed.

And mature, socially well-adjusted individuals will have a respectful argument, debate various points, and either concur in the end or agree to disagree. All without resorting to infantile tantrums, irrelevant insults and belligerent expressions of disgust.

Too bad that happens so little on the world wide web.

Finbar has a good point; he says that MANY individuals in the lifestyle online began as role players on various games (and are still there). Games like Warcraft, Runescape and the like.

More and more, in the BDSM world online, it is as if they have simply donned another "role".... but unfortunately, instead of understanding that it is possible to have a civilized discourse and an enjoyable debate, and do not have to resort to the use of spears, clans, or whatever hell else those games allow, they use words and try to bully others in agreeing with them.

The other point he makes which I find eminently reasonable is that too many people on here are socially maladjusted individuals who spend their entire life interacting with other online junkies ... and not enough time learning social skills that translate into civilized behaviour online or offline.

WHY are people egos so fragile that they must attack instead of arguing? I cannot tolerate that kind of infantile behaviour. I didn't tolerate in my children and I am hardly about to tolerate in people who call themselves adults!

But knowing as I do the repercussions of raising a rational discussion in an irrational melee, I will be honest and admit, I usually just walk away ... Because life is short. I have more than enough stressors in my real-time life to keep me occupied without adding the virtual drama of a dialogue or issue that you know is doomed to failure and lack of resolution.

I find it increasingly difficult to keep a still tongue in my head when I see how incredibly self-indulgent and immature so many people reveal themselves to be in this world. How they become instant "experts" with what they claim is "indepth" knowledge and experience - from WHAT? Pretending to be something online? Its pathetic in the end but at one and the same time, incredibly annoying.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Just stuff

  • So I applied today for my very FIRST Canadian passport! I feel all patriotic and stuff! I travelled fairly extensively when young, but not since finbar and I got married - and because my very bestest travelling companion was my cousin Miriam, I always travelled on my Irish passport. But now with the rules changing and stuff, thought it time to get my Canadian one.
  • I'm re-reading Iris Murdoch - if you had asked me before I just finished the first one I've read of hers since I was a teenager and DEVOURED everything she had written, I would have told you she was brilliant. I'm scratching my head and trying to figure out why I liked her?? I think I used to find her profound - but having just finished The Unicorn, I find her characters trite and dated, the situations nonsensical .... odd how perspective changes.
  • Having said that, my deep dark secret is that I have just received the latest Laurel Hamilton "anita blake" vampire hunter book - its like admitting to reading harlequins - sort of embarrassing to admit I LOVE these books ...

  • I read the blog (Feministe) regularly - find it challenging, insightful and informative - but sometimes it just breaks my heart - to sit here in 2008 and see that more than half the world sees women as less than human and of no worth whatsoever and that my own "world" still places them "less" than the male part of the human race
  • I've just ordered some interesting books ... The Hanging of Angelique - which is a factual study of slavery in Canada; Giles the Goat Boy by John Barth - another blast from the past - it will be curious to see if I find it as odd, quirky and provocative as I remember and yet ANOTHER former read - Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance - which I'm actually really looking forward to re-reading.
  • I'm always fascinated to see if books I once thought brilliant, continue in fact to delight, educate and enlighten - I would say that about 80% of the literature I thought wonderful when younger, turns out to be (on reading now) trite, boring, badly written or somehow far below the standard I had held it to.
  • Although only on FetLife for a very short period of time - I am thinking of just leaving ... I am finding it less than a salutatory experience these days. For a very brief period of time when it blipped into existence, I felt enamoured and delighted at the calibre of member - discussions were lively, insightful and REAL ... now it seems to me the fantasy group (as they seem to do everywhere) have invaded and conquered ... and the whole thing is becoming drama-ridden and boring - there are no discussions but endless repetitive "one-upmanship" diatribes and strident, offensive rantings that "my dom is bigger than your dom", "i'm FAR more submissive than you" ad infinitum ...

Monday, June 2, 2008


Roiling clouds twitching and flipping in an uncertain sky create a kaleidoscope of graduations of grey and blue and pale white. In the distance, blue beckons and promises surcease from the muted reality of a grey life. I feel so tired, body dragged and listless, mind unfocused and spirit damp with the weight of thought and soundless muted mutterings of a restless soul.

The labyrinth below me glows deep muted red in the fickle light which dances along the edge of sky and licks a glittering trail along the achingly tender green of the trees unfurling to the uncaring sky. Capricious gold dulls and turns a deep copper as sunlight is swallowed in the gasping breath of restless clouds, heavy bellied and pregnant with the promise of tears.

Trapped in my concrete tower, I yearn towards the restless lake which glints white-capped in the distance. I gaze around the panoramic reality which swings a kaleidoscope of colour and movement around the curvature of window and girder and embraces the changeable sky.

A lapsed Catholic, I miss the continuity and comfort of ritual but gazing out on the world I see the meshing of man and nature and the soaring needle of the Tower seems as spiritual as the spire on the Church of the Holy Cross below, both reflections of the human spirit’s need to climb the sky and reach out to a god unseen and unknown.

I feel a pleasant ache in my sinews and tendons, a gentle reminder of muscle, detritus of my workout an hour ago. Flexing pale flesh, pushing past the barrier of exhaustion and pain, lifting that last repetition until your arms and legs tremble and sweat rolls down a flushed face. I am a creature of gross habit and appetite; I relish to the reality of flesh though lose myself in the complicated highways of thought and emotion far too often.

Flesh grounds me to the here and now and in so doing, drags me into a reluctant embrace of self that the cerebral me tries to avoid. A thread on “emotions and beatings” recently got me musing on the repercussions of an intense session. Of course, I have an issue with the concept of “beatings” – although a question of semantics, “beatings” has negative connotations for me – a sense of non-consensual violence which I find offensive and off-putting. Flogging, for whatever reason, although admittedly the same actuality, has a different context, one which carries with it a sense of catharsis and pleasure.

Regardless of the connotations, floggings soothe me. They focus me, shut out extraneous noise and throw a blanket of calm around my chaotic mind. The world with its myriad demands and disappointments interwoven with life in all its messy emotional wants can create a state of anxiety and angst that is hard to relieve.

Taking the strings of my life and holding them in competent hands, winding them round and round my restless body to quieten its twitching need, to reach inside the chaos of a busy mind with the sharp sting of demand are moments I crave, sometimes with an almost unbearable want.

And need.