We’re all victims of our time, which is why I try my hardest to deny mine. More than anything, I long to live in the belly of a mountain. Don’t want any friends. Don’t want any fingers lifting the lid of my pot. My pot is my own. Keep your grubby hands off. I’m no stone, though. These urges boil. They blow my top. Hurrying down some street, the blood in my cock betrays my misanthropist ways. I say I hate other people, but every so often, along comes someone soft to slip through my defences. Us adults and our armour—these walls we build. We don’t have to erase who we are or cover our paths, we merely have to embrace the skin we’re in. The buildings on the horizon are the scabs of modern life. If I’m feeling brave, I pick them clean off. What oozes out is the truth. Dirty. Beautiful. Addictive. I smear it over my gums and reveal in what it means to be human. Such a filthy habit, yet without these grim kicks, my bottled up heart would surely explode.