It's been a desert, prolific in sand, bursting with dust. Facets of minutia glint off ribs of stalactites in the cone of my floodlight as I blunder further into the cave, it's warm, conditioned, climate controlled, stalagmites are piles of tires, rags, plastic, and cardboard boxes of lean cuisine.
A longer than normal run of no comments. A certain kind of craving sets in. Milk the body like my own parasite cause there's no people around - so go digi-sexual: pull the lever, release the current trained on my brain through the ocular main vein, quick, change lanes, just pass reality, merge left, cut to the chase - but it's really good porn, it's so good - so good - a couple of orgasms, 9.6 and 9.7 - on the solo scale, which is a common lowly scale because
orgasms with/in women are on a whole other scale, like six richters bridge the gap. Not once but twice in three hours, so I'm spent and strangely proud of the effort and sacrifice, valuing sex-drive as life-affirmation on some molecular level, the prolifery of wasted fertility, crust to dust. Breathe in my own dead skin cells over the course of another twelve months.
I'm left emptied. Can now assume full philosophical detachment. The only tinge of emotion left is a vaguely sad emptiness, but the vagueness mercifully veils the sadness in heavy fog. The fog is lukewarm, a thin layer of vapour of warm thoughts, the ice vaporized, its strands of frost separating, breaking apart in the air in the night, above the lake, the tenuous warmth of modern thoughts, needn't make any scientific sense, it needn't anything.
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