This is all messy prose. Desire is all just some big, wet morass, tangling and tangling around itself knots and moments of hatred and thick blood, moments of greatness... but only delicate moments, volatile moments, that come crashing down to just the bareness of your body-mind alone, bleeping out to nothingness. Find me a reprieve from it, some part of me heavy to the stomach calls. Yet pleasure is coming, oh pleasure, up and up through my throat, till I come to the slight strangling sensation and feel I’ve arrived somewhere. I look into Siddhartha’s light, into Art’s humble- cushy touch, to God’s paternal arm, to friendship, the most altruistic thing I know, embracing me as my self, resolved. This happens to me every day, until it cracks and the cycle starts again, and night falls and the sun breaks the world above, and it sends me hurtling back to a half déjà vu where I gleam again new light and swim in the somber beauty of the dark.
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