The yawn escapes the maw, its many jagged teeth clattering from the force of the wind. Saliva rains back down into the surroundings and into the mouth itself. The drops are caustic and filled with a paralyzing toxin.

The great hollow noise will cause permanent hearing damage without safety precautions being taken. Ear plugs made of dense foam accompanied with padded headphones must be worn at all times will working with the maw.

One suit composed of various acid-resistant plastics will be provided free of charge. It must be worn at all times while working with the maw. The acid can scour flesh, scorch bone, and eat away at your marrow.

No applicants who understand phonetic styles of cuneiform will be admitted entrance. As unlikely as this is, the warning is absolutely required. Do not attempt to understand the vibrations in the maw as doing so can bring on symptions including, but not limited to, seizures, heart attacks, exsanguination, permanent loss of cognitive function, and sudden death.

Do not ever remove the provided eyeglasses during work hours or within a 1 mile radius of the facility. The maw expels noxius fumes that only impact the human eye. These fumes can cause symptons similar to schizoaffective disorder. If you begin to see colors that are adjacently purple without a known source, immediately inform your supervisor.

Do not talk within 20 meters of any the maw's pustules. They are listening and they are remembering. Do not attempt any form of communication with them. Doing so will result in immediate termination of your contract and legal action will be pursued. Repeat, do not talk to the maw.

Always ensure that you follow proper eye contact procedures while working within the facility. Do not look up, do not look into the depth of the maw, do not look into a co-workers eyes, do not look at your reflection, do not look at your reflection, and do not look at your reflection.

Do not worry about your heart rate, wild fluctuations are normal while working within the facility. This is caused by our hearts adapting to the vibrations constantly interrupting our normal heart rate. Work slowly, calmly, and as relaxed as you can in this situation.

Finally, all food must be eaten in the break room.

Enjoy your time with Exnaut.

It stinks, as in the smell. You know, two (or more) sweating and moaning persons going at it can get pretty nasty with all that genitalia waving around everywhere.

It is not visually appealing often; parts of it are, don't get me wrong. But a dirty crack is the same anywhere I see it: gross.

I suppose the sounds aren't too bad, that is until a sneaky queef escapes or bellies slap together just a little too hard. I giggle a bit during those moments.

The physical sensation of touch is nice, unless my nipples are grazed; I tell ya, I just do not get nipples, they confuse the heck out of me.

Hair gets in mouths, body fluids get on the bed, sometimes we just aren't into it, and sometimes a snuggle is all we need.

You know what, though. Sex is beautiful and fun, so long as everyone consents. There are a lot of feelings that I can express only during sex. Words that cannot be expressed through language, emotions that can only be felt during the chemical throws our brains go through during sex, and I have never felt closer to my significant other than at those times.

So much that I wish I knew how it could be said is expressed during those moments.

Sex is so much more than a climax. It's a longing, a build up, a giggle, a tickle, a rush of excitement, and a sigh of contentedness.

It is resting in the arms of someone you can trust and feel safe with. It is one of the many ways to express our internal desire to be loved and to love.

Just don't touch my nipples.

I like to think of it as a time bomb that has no timer on it.

I always hearing it ticking away.

And when it explodes, I am left with all of these dang words on the walls, soaked into the carpet, stained on my chair, splattered on my clothes, and spewing from my mouth.

So, I projectilely vomit, wring the soaked rag, shake off my clothes, and scrape all of those words onto Prose.

It seems to be working so far.

OH GOD! WHAT SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT WITH ONLY SIXTEEN WORDS?

oh yeah, absolutely nothing.

nevermind

Stress, always driving me further towards some nebulous goal.

It hangs over my tribe like a spectre; looking to send one of us into a depressive spiral day in and day out.

Every day, we slay this beast. Every hour, we fall and rise from its actions. Every minute, we live.

It's confusion incarnate. It leaves us stumbling around day after day into misunderstandings and miscommunications.

But the spaces inbetween all of the fear, anxiety, stress, and anger; that is where our love exists.

It is always there in the background. Knocking on the window to remind us that we have each other and to forever hold our vigil against the snowball of despair.

We try to lean on the one closest to ourselves but sometimes they cannot stand.

In those moments, we are not alone for we must learn to walk on our own two feet.

That strength binds us together and allows us to forge further on into the future.

Almonds sprinkle into the pan. Shuttering and shivering, they burst from the excitement caused by the heat. The smell erupts into the kitchen, a scorched sweetness that brings wrinkles to my nose.

I ask myself outloud, "Why did I do that?"

But, only the almonds know the answer to that.

I am left with controlling the damage of my cooking epiphany. Internally, I stuggle with the thought that I may have assisted with the suicide of these almonds; now lying crackling on the floor. Externally, I am dancing around the burning drupes on the dirty kitchen tile.

My wife, slack-jawed, asks me why I did that.

But, as I am scrambling to clean up the mess, I can only respond with "the almonds told me to."

She lightly scoffs and allows me to return to my kitchen adventure.

Somewhere inside of my brain is a combination of words that express what I feel when I say I am confused, heartbroken, anxious, scared, or depressed. For me, writing is the endless search for that combination. My fuel is my life experience and the literature I consume.

As young as I am, I am not as young as I once was and the years are starting to weigh me down. To lighten this load, I must first understand what it is I need to lighten. A burden is not something that should be hastily removed. Some burdens are worth carrying and others are worth shedding. The difficulty lies in deciding which is which.

Words allow me to express how and why I feel weighed down. Most of the time, the burdens I reveal with my words dissapear with their elucidation. I like that. No, I love that. I regularly strip myself down to just the burdens that are the result of a lifetime of anguish. I love those burdens, I carry them with pride because I know I can live a good life even with them being so heavy.

This process is ongoing, it will never be completed. I will accrue burdens that cannot be shed, traumas that cannot be defined, and pains that cannot be cured. Despite that, I will survive because words will allow me to achieve solidarity with myself.

Mayonnaise.

Slathered in it,

Reveling in it,

Dancing in it.

Oh, Mayonnaise.

I moderately enjoy you as a condiment,

you are okay.

Mayonnaise, at worst, you are bird scat.

From here, it looks like you are doing a great job.

Keep writing, no matter what it is about.

Honestly, there is no secret.

There is no metamorphosis into adulthood. You will not be given some rulebook. You will not be told how to function as a person.

Find your flavor of human you want to be. Only you can decide if you are who you want to be.

I, nor anyone else, has the right to tell you how to be.

The journey to discover yourself will never end.

Man, I am still clueless and I am sure that I always will be.

Hey, the way you twinkle is the most endearing feature you have.

You do not take or give but we appropiate blame to you, anyways.

We, humans, try to survive in any way we can.

We want to blame you. We want to have something to take the burden of despair off of our shoulders.

You... do not even notice the responsibilty that we accost you with.

Yet, we continue treat you as an anthropomorphic thing with desires or intent.

Despite the intensity and fervor of our blame, you continue to twinkle with a vast array of colors that shock and astonish all of those who are willing to look.

It is almost as if our blame is misplaced, misjudged, and misappropiated.

How wonderful it would be if it weren't.

Fairness, equality, balance.

These are words that we made up and have no effect outside of our meager existence. I mean, even within our existence we cannot agree on what words mean or how to say them.

What gives us the right to blame an unconscious and unfeeling universe that merely provides the setting of our lives unintenionally?

Universe, you are beautiful today and tomorrow. You are a chaotic vastness of awesome size and probability. I only dream of viewing you through lenses wide enough to capture your entire being. In reality, doing so would leave me with nothing new. For I cannnot comprehend even the size of the mote of dust I live on.

Universe, continue on. With or without us, you will still be the most enrapturing thing to look upon.