The cause of sense is the external body or object.
Leviathan stink will leave you triumphant. Trumpet song wreaks a daffodill like odour.
Fearful, and menacing, the criminal embraces your sensitivity.
The laughter of woman lures you into the belly of the beast.
The smoothness of tit and ass.
Investigation of your principles.
Identity.
Ejaculation.
Speed fucker.
Alien influence?
Lonely diversions.
Your own private thing hooks.
Personal stuff, your quiet stuff, your things, in the world.
Champion your identity unto thyself.
So what's your role?
What's your bequest?
What will you want bequeathed at your wake?
Some one/thing that you liked?
Or your thing?
"Even this must have a preface -- that is, a literary preface," laughed Ivan, "and I am a poor hand at making one."
- Details
- Ricardovitz