Hot spunk squirts into the neon sky. I don’t see it, but I feel it, and it feels as though my body has subsequently passed into the spirit realm. It feels as though I consist of pipping hot air, fluid electricity and the squishiest of squishy cream; cream squeezed straight from the tit of some ancient god I’ve never heard of. One with many succulent teats; each ready to feed the hungry mouth of an aspiring writer who gets little out of life other than fleeting flights of fancy and years of anguish at failing to achieve the only thing I know will set me free. Something like that. Chewing the air as if my teeth were nibbling a heavenly nipple, the world of green before my eyes is a kaleidoscope of exotic wonders. Life is a well-thumbed porno, it seems, but somehow, I’ve stumbled across a secret page; one that knows my heart’s desires in ways I wouldn’t have dared imagine. My spunk keeps pumping. It’s as if I’ve severed an artery in my sex. I daren’t look in case I see red, so I keep my eyes closed and give myself to the sensation of disappearing while at the same time knowing I’m being born again as something else.