You ever look at where you are?

I mean really look at it - the place, the time, the things you find yourself thinking throughout the course of the day. The words that fall from your tongue, or flow from your fingers, when you sit at a blank, black page with a blinking cursor.

I have.

A lot, honestly, and writing is the vehicle that helps me see, sometimes. Like a lens, that I can look out through onto other worlds - cute, bouncy-butted hobbits, robots with a soul, or quiet walks in the woods with faraway lovers. And yet, like a lens, if I look hard enough... I can see myself, reflected in the glass.

Hell, I'll admit it; perhaps the reason so many of my tales skew toward the jovially fantastical, or the starkly morose, is because the latter is the mood I'm in, when I write - a late night, at the end of the day, when tiredness and cold seep into my bones. And the former? Maybe that's the mood I'm trying to capture. Not like a photographer, seeking to freeze a moment in time, but a hunter. Trying to pluck a thread of a different, better world from the ether, and live in it for a moment.

Real life is... well, real, I guess. Grinding and constant, with a throb, an ache, at the base of my skull, a dull, gray thing sometimes. Sometimes I think about what I do, and I wonder if people have died because of it. Of me.

Sometimes it's the simple things, the things I write when I'm feeling the most, that people seem to like here. Simple things - a fun, thrusty adventure into the forays of butt stuffing, a what-if comedy of tanks and dragons, a frustrated vent against the feeling of not having the words for the images in my mind. A little missive to another world, sometimes, or a silly romp extolling the virtues of a good, solid blowjob.

Blowjobs are interesting, I think - I didn't like them, once. Now, sometimes I just dream of them. Often, of a specific someone, but sometimes, just a single, abstract concept, of being able to relax, and bare myself, and run my fingers through the hair of someone who's doing something for me, and damned be the things surrounding why.

I'd go on about feeling my thighs tense, and fingers tighten in the hair of the reader, and the succulent, salty pump from my tip, but...

I suppose I did, just a little, there, didn't I?

Maybe it's different, every time, what I see when I look at where I am. And why I write.

But this feeling, I guess, is why I write tonight.