My condition is worsened by a lack of touch and aggravated by excess sound. Everything should be minimal. Colours mute. Objects smooth. My seed is resolute. It trickles and sinks. It blows and hits just where it should. It flows through the air at the speed of dreams. Such a violent fluid. Such a tricky little number just waiting to be eaten alive. Going deeper. Sinking like nothing else matters. Take off that dress. Burn all that it stands for. Symbols and Instruments of my faith. They seal my dilemma with sickening ease. Close your eyes and see me as I am. Let my tongue caress weeping wounds. Let my fingers trace the scars that mark teenage distortion. Survival of empty spaces, and gutless followers at every turn. When the world stops spinning, pay me a visit. Let me destroy and paint the atoms of your neck all over my bedroom floor. Let me put you on a pedestal and get lost in the patterns of your eyes. Seasons in Hell. Sensations of losing control. A sequence of figures on pale shores ready for plucking. Tenderly creeps a wayward shadow. Darkly growls a monster unseen. Stick me in and let me come. Give me a taste of what lies beneath. Orchids and sandstorms that dance together as the moon slithers just into view. Murals that stretch around tender thighs. Tattooed pinky flesh that blinks in time to the beat of halved hearts. A gasp of gasps, and milky fingers so slow with no one else around. Symmetrical like flowers, hips repeat until the sun comes down. It comes hard, like a car crash just out of view. Bodies in flight. Fractures beyond comparison. Give me a cure to heal these aching hands. Feed me a secret to show me another way. Between gaps of knowledge, I form temples at will. The end of days, raging with love. And at the very last moment, love is all we have. It keeps us safe from oblivion. It sets us free from despair.