The light of the dead white orbs pierces my mind. The sound is just as intense; it blocks out everything—even the explosions in my chest. It’s like I’m having a heart attack; or a Grand Mal. It feels as if my bones are trying to escape from my cage of skin. If it weren’t for the pleasures on offer, I would give in and let death take me, but those pleasures; how tempting they are, and how close I am to being their victim yet again. My throat is dry; as dry as the hollow bits of my hollow bones. My bones are wet though—caught in a state of flux I’ve known so many times, but never like this. Meeko’s thumb and forefinger are moving too fast for me to make sense of their rhythm, and yet the rhythm is as familiar to me as the beat of my spasming heart. If it goes on much longer, it will burst like an eggshell—the yolk dripping from within not an aborted chick but the dead remains of my childhood, still warm and fresh so many years after its wistful end. The yolk in my balls though is still very much alive and on the cusp of spurting out in a celebration of life. When it does, I will be at the mercy of the gods. It won’t last long—it never does—but when I ejaculate, the walls will come tumbling down, and there will be no separating the myriad bubbles of time and space that occupy my spasming mind. Fuck knows how she expects me to aim my spunk at the guy’s head. So caught up in the rapture of my senses, I’m blind with delight.