*thread bump

Hay

..And the heavens rained brass, and the thunder from the skies was an endless stream of bombers providing a firestorm that would impress even the Gods. When morning came the mist that rose from the ground carried the smell of cordite,burnt flesh and the souls of the unfortunate...
For those who lived, the battle will never be over. They carry the guilt of a survivor, the scars of the living, and the profound realization that protection, in the service of your country, brings no peace to the soul...
Lest we forget..

Love is what you make. I sit here and rub myself. Feeling the soft skin around my collar bone. Running my fingers down my arm. I am enjoying my touch. Telling myself how beautiful I am. Thanking God for creating me with such care. I am a complex creature. Living in a world that tries to define my joy. But in those rare moments when I can fully appreciate the softness of my figure like those moments when I am just getting out the shower, or when my nephew crawls over so that he can fall asleep in my arm, or even like now, when I am reflecting on the meaning of true intimacy, I can appreciate the things I know about me and the things I will learn. I hold an affection for myself, faults and all. And I can appreciate myself being just a little too nice.

Miss Davis?

Did you just rub one out in my thread?

wow... storm so true... thanks