I remember when you posted this because we posted stories, breaking silences on the same week some months ago, and I found it hilariously timed. Not often good writers post here, I thought, not like it was a few years back when we shot the shit over a few PMs. Lot's changed since then, as time is want to do I suppose, but I immediately went back to lurking. You responded to what I wrote, and believe me, the words were touching, but...I couldn't come here to read because reading had become too much a chore across other mediums and, well, so was writing. So dive back into the black. You'll get the love and adoration you get when you post.
Been piecing together inspiration from the wilted dead into some kind of fragile blossom, and my first instinct was to come here and read this. Because I owed it to you because it is rude not to. Didn't know what to expect. Solid writing, sure. You did something here that many try but can't as they fumble with the keys. You found the right notes, the right tenor, the right speech, the right level of giving me information yet painting this picture. The bondage is too perfect and I want that warmth and that snarling to see the breaking point underneath an unyielding, uncompromisable soft touch that splits open the soul in a calm thousand cut symphony. I see visions of the past and the future and think of the impossible struggle in leather web that renews after each time she is released because conquering without fight is conquering without reward.
I get pissed when I see the others read your work and heap praises upon it without understanding the process and understanding how fucking hard it is to capture what you just captured. You don't paint. You express. The rhythms. The beats. There are others, sure, but not like this because you're distinctive compared to so and so and this guy or this girl and yeah.
Sorry for not responding sooner. This is pretty awesome.
