Lonely nights
We chase misprinted lies
We face the path of time
And yet I fight
And yet I fight
This battle all alone
No one to cry to
No place to call home

Oooh... Oooh...
Oooh... Oooh...

My gift of self is raped
My privacy is raked
And yet I find
And yet I find
Repeating in my head
If I can't be my own
I'd feel better dead

Oooh... Oooh...
Oooh... Oooh...

A smile from a veil

You may never see this, but it needs to be said.

At first it seemed that I had picked the song I chose for you simply for the face value of it. "Wish You Were Here" is simple enough, right? I. Wish. You. Were. Here. Listen to the words, though, and you'll see where I am now, today.

"So, do you think you can tell heaven from hell? Blue skies from pain?"

Do you, Lucas? With your newly clouded judgments? I can't believe I used to look up to you. You are conquered and it's her fault. It is all the same to you if she wants it... and it's your fault, too.

"Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil?"

It has become obvious that you can't. You sat there, spoke to me with such listlessness that you weren't even alive anymore, and you looked right through me. You couldn't even distinguish that it was my heart you were breaking.

Broken. You've left me hear, broken and alone and I don't think you have the consciousness to realize it. She stole it from you. She stole all that made you who you were. How can you expect to make kings when you can't even make yourself. You are nothing now.

"Oh, how I wish you were here. We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year."

Oh how far the mighty has fallen. I don't know whether to feel sadness and sorrow, of pity you, you fucking tool.


The name rang out tonight like a damned bell in the dead of winter. It cut me like a knife before the numb too over again. I can't hate him anymore. I can't hate anyone.

I hear they made E prince tonight, too. If I gave a shit about it, I might actually congratulate him. Fuck it. Who cares anymore, really?


Why did he have to be named something so common. Why couldn't it have been Sylvester, Garamond, Bastian. Fucking Thomas. Fucking life after life. Fucking... fuck. Who cares?

Until recent times
How I ended up in the car, I can't remember. The whole world has been darkness for me these last few days. Now I'm stuck between a cold, wet window and some bimbo I've never met whose currently fondling my grandfather. Lame.

I thought the headphones might help. Pandora save me. Of course, first song on tears my heart out all over again.

Fuck you, Sarah McLaughlin. Do what you have to do my ass. Die in a fire.

Next song up, was hoping for something a little more upbeat. Wait, isn't this from the movie the Crow? "Dead souls," it's called. How painfully appropriate.

Anyway, back to this car... This tiny fucking sports car driven by some crackhead with his bimbo girlfriend dressed like a belly-dancing reject. Fucking gross.

God I miss him. All I wanted was to be his forever, for him to be mine forever. I could have lived with that.


Get. Out. Of. My. Head. Seriously.


Now I am about to go on like some aging fucking oracle or some shit. I was seriously about to spout some crap about "the good old days" like I fucking remember; like they fucking matter anyway. I hate what I've become. I hate how I got here. I hate this town. I hate this street. I hate this car. I hate this fucking twat next to me.

"Oh, it'll all be okay."

Shove that sunshine up your ass, bitch. In fact, go stand in the fucking sun. Take me with you. Then I'm not stuck listening to some controlling asshole with a small penis driving his sporty little midlife crisis and rambling on about some fucking dark goddess like I'm made to give a damn.

Jesus Christ I want to die.

Fuck you, What's Your Name. I wish I'd never gone to that fucking gathering. I hate that hotel. FUCK.

You fucking ruined me and I can't even remember your name.

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skys from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade
Your heros for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here

Your hand meets mine in a room crowded with mutual acquaintances and some I'd dare call friends. Shocked at first, my body gives way to the yearning for closeness to another human being and the warm tug of your fingers intertwined with my own. Silently, we remove ourselves from present company, seclude ourselves in a world all our own. We're not far from them, and their voices, thralls, and laughter all mix well with the suddenly heavier air we breathe together heated by our proximity to one another.

I can not recall who makes the first move, whether it be my hand gliding up your back, across your shoulders, and taking up residence in your hair, or it be you pressing ardent lips to my own, but it matters not so much as what those initial movements gave way to. The explosive passions nearly surprise us both, though they shouldn't. It would seem this was a long time coming.

Shirts are lifted and hair tussled as clothing forms a series of multicolored dunes amongst the smooth carpet. Somewhere amongst the chaos we've lost our shoes and socks. My fingers pull hungrily at the few things holding you into your remaining clothes until those, too, give way before I realize that I, too, am lacking my attire.

The initial concussion lulls then, calming and breaking for a more personal, sensual experience. Smooth lips caress my body as I lay back and allow you to overtake me. Deft hands seem to know just where to go and what to do in such a case and I find myself giving in to the pleasures that face me. Your lips find the peaks of my breasts, the valley between, and every area surrounding as a soft moan escapes my lips. You reach for a bottle, something warm and dark, and drizzle a tantalizing amount on whatever part of me your tongue seeks and proceed by following the trail. My excitement grows as I clutch the back of you head, trying to take hold of something to keep me on the ground while my head floats in the clouds.

Your hands are making their own magic while you slowly lick off what bits remain of the chocolate. We'd talked before, almost joked about the amount of tongue-to-skin friction required to get a person clean after such fun, and I was more than thrilled to see our conversations and my fantasies come to fruition. Reminded of such lawless thoughts, I am compelled to recall a much more natural, primitive encounter I had envisioned, which only serves to heighten my desires to be with you.

I slowly drift my fingertips from your hair across your cheeks to your chin and begin to lead your lips to mine. When they are there, my fingers linger just under your jaw, holding you fast there while my remaining hand again grips your untamed strands. My grip then tightens as I nibble and suck. I don't have to whisper my adoration in your ear for you to understand what I mean as I pull you close to me with every bit of consciousness I've got. It seems as though a beast has risen within me and is struggling for freedom through my actions and yours.

A bit of pressure makes way to pure bliss as our warmth interlaces with that of each other. You take advantage of the gentle parting with a forcible thrust. A mild moan through gritted teeth creeps out of my mouth without notice, and soon I am growling in your ear with the rhythm.

Things start to get a bit more violent, enjoyably so. Pleasure overtakes any other sensory input surrounding us, except the occasionally jarring laughter of our 'friends' nearby. Crescendos of passion are accentuated and heightened by the deep, skin-rending drag of my nails down your back. My breath is taken away by each hard drive between us, forced out by simple momentum. Soon, you, too, feel the compelling crescendo rising within you, and we collapse together in a mass of limbs and sweat.

Sleep stretches its lingering tendrils to us, embraces us, and we soon find hours lost to our moment of bliss. We both rise, do our best to regain our composure as well as our clothing, and follow the sounds of the continued friendly gathering back to our own places, still managing to catch a glance or two of one another out of the corners of our eyes. They are fun, are they not, our little rendezvous?

Do what you have to do
It was not until my requiem nearly met it's end that I realized just the kind of gift I had been given and just what it was that I was throwing away. So many opportunity squandered on little more than a physical desire that has long lost it's emotional pull and meaning in my now-un-life.

Thoughts, reflections of days long past, imagery of days to come, and hope, wondrous hope, that I may find you walking beside me in these long nights flooded my consciousness for the duration of my return trip to meet who I thought would be my maker. I was even faced with my deepest, darkest desires, and still my thoughts were entirely filled with you.

I don't know how to let you go. I don't want to.

You once asked me to live for something more than my own requiem... and I will. I will live for yours. I will willingly take the second seat behind your own greater purpose if you, the only one who truly sees me, helps me to discover my own.

For you:

What ravages of spirit
conjured this temptuous rage,
created you a monster,
broken by the rule of love?
And fate has led you through it.
You do what you have to do.
And fate has led you through it.
You do what you have to do.

And I have the sense to recognize
that I don't know how to let you go.

Every moment marked
with apparitions of your soul.
I'm ever swiftly moving,
trying to escape this desire,
the yearning to be near you.
I do what I have to do.
The yearning to be near you.
I do what I have to do.

AND I have the sense to recognize
that I don't know how to let you go.
I don't know how to let you go.

A glowing ember, burning hot,
AND burning slow.
Deep within, I'm shaken by the violence
of existing for only you.

I know I can't be with you.
I do what I have to do.
I know I can't be with you.
I do what I have to do.

And I have the sense to recognize
But I don't know how to let you go.
I don't know how to let you go.

(no subject)

Starving artist? HA! Hardly "starving," per se, but you know stereotypes.

I was born and raised right here in the Big Apple. Wouldn't trade this dump for the world. Sure, the streets are rough, but what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right? You see, growing up in this city of drastic contradictions simply means that I grew up more in touch with reality. Brooklyn has it's pleasures and it's pains, it's hate and love, it's joy and indifference.

My parents were middle-class, Midwestern transplants in this fine city in 1902. They were drawn by the hustle and bustle, the busy nature of it all. They were determined to make something of themselves in one of America's finest cities. Their lives were blessed just 5 years later with a beautiful, if I do say so myself, little girl, all bundled in pink and bonnets. I grew up in an environment very different from kids in any other city in the world. I grew up living an American Dream, living in New York City.

I'll steal a passage from Nicole Brydson, a fellow New Yorker, as featured in The New York Observer:
"A city full of contradictions mimics reality, and it makes those of us reared in that reality cynical at an early age; a cynicism that differentiates us from our city's newcomers, whose childhoods were tinged with the dream of living here.
'Growing up with the reality of New York versus the dream of it, though, colors everything,' said a particularly observant friend who moved to New York after college. 'If you always thought of it as an opportunity, you don't let the reality get you down; but, if you always lived in the reality, the opportunities can pass you by because you aren't convinced that they're there. It's mind over matter.'"

Were opportunities given and overlooked, or simply lacking altogether? I suppose it doesn't matter anymore. Since the change, I suppose nothing from my past really matters that much. The change is where my story really begins.

It was September of 1933. The Great Depression was in full swing, though the only great thing about it was the number of people affected. Prohibition was coming to an end, and my glorious city just celebrated the 10th birthday of the Yankee Stadium. It was a year unlike any others.

There was a particularly unseasonable chill in the Autumn air as I took a stroll through the run-down Central Park area. The dead trees and shrubs, and debris showed it's years of mismanagement and neglect even in the moon light, but it was still beautiful in the eyes of an artist. Death leads the way to rebirth, after all. It was just my luck, however, that something else had caught my eye in the dismal parts of the glen. He was a tall man with dark hair, mysterious eyes, and a plastic smile. I was a fool for it all and he knew it. He was a predator, and I his willing prey.

Quick glances under trees' limbs that reached out like bony fingers led to introductions, led to casual conversation, led way to a romp in his downtown one-bedroom loft. He was a magician with his hands, a true artist with the spoken word, and magnificent in captivating a pretty young woman such as myself. His name was Alexander, and he was Great indeed. Alexander Clark was a professional... Professional Con Man.

As I said before, I was a fool for it all. I fell hard and I fell fast, and that man took it for all it was worth. He promised me the moon and stars, the Earth, but what hurt more was he promised me his love. From the moment I laid eyes on him, I was simply drawn to him for reasons I couldn't explain. Of course, I know them all too well now... But it didn't take long for me to notice certain oddities about my new fling. He was virtually impossible to reach during the day, and people seemed to flock to him, male and female alike. He had a presence about him that caused everyone around him to go into sexual overdrive. It was amazing behind closed doors.

I only made the mistake of asking him once what all this was about. My questions got answered with a black eye from a balled fist, but I loved him anyway. I stuck by that bastard for 5 more months before he finally spoke one solid word about it all. At first, I didn't believe him. A vampire? HA! Hardly. Those are things of fairy tales. Oh boy, I believed him that night. I thought I was in for our typical night of rough foreplay when he tied me to the radiator on his bedroom floor, even if the leather bindings were a bit tight this time.

Bound, gagged, and blindfolded, I lay there for God knows how long while he watched me writhe from his bed. He loved control, and I loved to please him. I have no idea what he was doing or how long he was doing it, because when he finally came close, when I could finally feel his breath on my skin, nothing else seemed to matter. He incited some emotion in me that night that I still can't explain.

His lips, normally cold and lonely, were hot like embers as he kissed his way down to my thigh. Excitement was brimming by the time I felt his open mouth meet my skin. The following moments were pure bliss. Highs the likes of which I had never known, followed by the cool comfort of unconsciousness.

I woke up alone, cold, hungry in a way I had never known, and absolutely terrified in an alleyway behind Yankee Stadium. I don't now how long I had been there, how I got there, or how to sate my newest urges. Something about me had changed, something IN me had changed.  I was left there to fend for myself. I've never forgiven the bastard.

I learned what I could and lied about the rest for close to 5 years before I had the nerve to seek out my own kind. I had holed myself up in my shabby studio apartment, taking to painting away my sorrows. It wasn't until I opened myself up to the cursed monsters that created me that I truly knew acceptance again. The world I had known and loved had unconsciously shunned my very existence.

In 1939, I had a most interesting opportunity to mingle with my kind from all over the world. Some police officers in my fine city had decided to breathe some new life into the economy still struggling with the Great Depression. They created and hosted the World's Fair, drawing in exhibits from all over the world, and with it came the night-walkers. Since I had just "come out of my shell," I was eager to get to know my own kind. It was here that I ran into a Gabriel D`Angelo. Although cold and emotionless, he saw me for what I was. He took me under his wing and taught me the finer points of our kind. With his assistance, hunting became less of an awkward game in which I hid my true self, and more of the fine art of seduction.

My mentoring continued through the second World War. Finding prey was harder when everyone was paranoid, so working as a team was a welcome relief. It wasn't until 1948 when I began to engross myself in my art that we began to drift apart. Some time in the height of the summer of 1949, Gabriel was called away to be with his Covenant, and I was left to my work.

In October of 1949, I opened my first gallery. It was in a dingy hole in the wall in downtown, but the rent was cheap and I was close to everything. Opening night, this pretty little blond caught my eye. Tall, deep blue eyes, legs for miles. Her name was Heather. She had some young pup with her name Rhyvan. She was gorgeous, and I thought for sure she'd hold my attention forever... but the way Rhyvan spoke to me changed that. He and I shared something I've found with few others: We shared the most open, honest, and down-to-Earth conversations I've ever known. He was so intriguing, I couldn't stay away. We spent the better part of my first month as a gallery owner chit-chatting over hors d'oeuvres while the fans and admirers flocked past.  If it wasn't there, it was the closest club, hottest bars, or altogether best night spots I could think of. Heather made sure to drag him off into the sunset before anything developed.

I became once again engrossed in my work when all the fun left town. It wasn't until 1995 in a rather upscale club in Soho that anything else caught my attention for any length of time. She was a red-head in a floor-length blue dress and she moved like an angel. Every jaw in the room dropped when she entered, and every pair of eyes followed her wherever she went. I sat down next to some other poor sap at the bar who was just as taken as I was. It was a good thing I was as well-trained as I was. Not even liquid courage would have helped a defenseless mortal in a situation like this, but this was what I LIVED for. My approach went unnoticed until I complimented her hair. Her smile pierced right through me... until I noticed her attentions were diverted just to my left. A wolf in sheep's clothing stood beside me, flashing a white smile under his dark skin. Pasha Merrick had finally met her match. We were like two peas in a damned pod, two halves of one whole, each an equal and unrelenting force on the other. Our conversations and movements flowed like water. It must have been some sight. She fell to the both of us with little effort. I had my way with her while he sat back, watched, and salivated. Fun times were had by all. All the best predators utilize the pack once in a while.

Antonio Bautista, he introduced himself as. A very sharp-looking individual of Spanish decent. He was a card shark and  a purveyor of fine perfumes, a true artist with the olfactory, and equally as skilled on the dance floor. He took the nickname "dance of love" to a whole new level and together, we were an unstoppable team. He made his mark WITH me, even if it wasn't left ON me. I'm not sure where he ever ran off to, but I can guarantee a great time is to be had when we get together again.

It wasn't until 2001 that I left New York long-term. The attacks on the World Trade Centers there drew too much undue attention to my beloved town for my liking, and so I took to the road. I grew fond of the road in the years of solitude. I often took trips to gallery openings and art roadshows to pass the time. I found a particular attraction to San Francisco. In any case, I chose not to stay in one spot for long. It's hard to get your life torn apart again when you aren't around long enough to make a connection, right?


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