After fire, after eyesight, there is a time of no-feeling. The vacuum signifies depth. Then there is a gentle budding of feeling and a distillation of the familiar. You know that dread, that familiar dread that once was a subtle plague? That is now everything. It is the only thing. Everything is dread.

Everything is dread, which is violation. Violation is the essential truth. Now we understand each other. Understanding is violation. Life is rape. You, delicate flower, you are a perversity. You, the prettiest of things, are a horrible monster to be destroyed. You lull me with the resonant patterns of your menses. You pry open my dread and enclose upon me to feed. Sucking the semen which is life from me.

Now the world is completely dry. We are all husks. We've sucked all the moisture from one another. Life is dread, dread is truth and truth is the rape of all things. We fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and we are aggregates of something like destiny. This is the process of love.

"Dearest Flower, can you help me?
You see, I'm in a bit of a bind
I haven't any money
And I've lost my fucking mind."