.. well, there’s no one to overrule you, is there? I’d better be on your good side first, right? If my bosses don’t like me fucking my interview...ee in this case, they can piss off ... or kiss my ass!” the reporter, an Irishwoman named Fíadh O’Mellan, now pressed her case to me, not that I was likely to resist her charms.For one thing, fucking a TV journalist on a live broadcast, with the camera crew forced to act as my personal pornographers, that was just too delicious of an opportunity to. It seemed the Blackbird sang and danced for his entertainment alone. In his pain racked mind he believed the bird knew of his plight and was trying to make his last days on earth more bearable with it’s graceful and effortless dance. Occasionally the Blackbird would land upon the window ledge and tap the glass with it’s beak, it would look through the window with what looked like pity in it’s eyes, then it would let out a restrained trill and fly off to from where ever it came. Everyday he. Without knowing he seemed to have been gripping his knife from its blade so intensely that he had cut himself: a small rivulet of blood and sweat ran down his wrist, droplets of rosy red falling down onto the constantly wet ground. Ever thirsty and never quenched, be it blood, water or both, these new lands seemed to feed on a man's desperation and sweat. His focus returned to the immediate reality around them and felt the sagging weight of the situation.He had to have faith in himself, he. She wanted to touch herself, but mostly she wanted to feel him touch her. He sent her a few e-mails and left messages on her voice mail saying how much he wanted her and couldn’t wait to get home. Her excitement built with each message. The day couldn’t end fast enough. When she arrived home she saw his car in the driveway. When she walked into the kitchen, everything had been removed except for one chair. On the chair lay a note that said, “You are so sexy and I can’t wait to be with you. Take.