Yes but I fall into. Yes, “I”. Can I use the I? Or my eye? Can I say eye now or is it I or they or what or him or them or is it even my brain at all? My orgasms are stronger when I’m depressed – they penetrate the mist when I’m depressed – dissipate the fog when I come all the more hungrier, all the more lonely. And then that rush gives me license to go play in the evening with wine and scents and the hum of tress and things like this after the rush of come on my fingers. And then I smoke a cigarette after the first nice glass or two, after my sac’s been drained of all that mad energy – all that mad frenetic energy packed into two little balls. And I’d of course prefer to empty it all inside of you and then let the pill kill it for what’s it worth other than some other cranky cunt in nineteen or so years time, groping through the weirdness, any harbour in the anxiety, any port of relief – no but fuck that, I’d rather come inside you and watch your little shoulders tremor as I climb inside and pluck your bow and make your nerves dance and the shivers down your spine and the rush, the rush and the noise of Parisian traffic outside and some banal thought fleeting through after the profound like what vegetables to serve with the fish and what time will the magic hour be when it’s just you and me and sheets and softness and no agony but not now, now I’m fucked, alone, asunder, tossing myself off to some Russian waif being thrown about by these numbskull pornstars, tossing and jamming and ramming and wailing and all of those things, all of those memorable moments are just an afterthought after I come onto my own sheets alone, not even beating to the memory but to some remote cyber island, a lurid oasis of come and anal and feet and tits and blowjobs and discharge and sperm and the memories are this now, this is what I’ve chosen to invest in because I know all of that is irreplaceable but maybe you’ll take some comfort in this and now that I’m alone perhaps I’ll expire jacking against my own reflection after nine Smithwicks to PornHub, and that’ll be me fucked at 65, heartattack, dribbling little old man cock with a PornHub playlist still drilling into to void, the paramedics having to close the tab and close the lid.

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