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My words will ring out in a voice of pure abstraction across a plane, a plane of existance where the only communication can be impulse, where there is no "you", no "me", but only a Final Me, and maybe a Final You, but that's not very important. Because there you will not need to speak to me, nor I to you, but I will anyway, in a voice of pure abstraction, because of your incomprehenisble state of oppostion, opposition to my impulse, an impulse responsible only to me, an impulse, straining against my flesh and credulity, to momentarily glorify your physical being by the joining of our two physical substances, that is, my claw on your tit, to show you the primal stuff of which you and I are made.
The Boyfriend. You're dead. Retailers of fantasynovels and bad porn are the only people who'llmiss you. Okay, maybe your mum too. |
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