The head is clouded, the eyes are heavy, the anxious twitches of how things should have been. A Bunch Of Spiritual Nonsense is all this is.
I am sorry, Jane, but nothing I say tonight will make sense to you. Not that it makes any sense to me. It seldom does anyway.
My mind has been wandering nervously, ragingly, frustratingly through a few different places, locations, dimensions.
Meanwhile, here I am, empty, anxious, spent, with a deep void in my head that has since been invaded by the demons of darkness.
I am the hunted one tonight, Jane, I am the prey, available cheap on a silver platter for the Gods of douchery.
The pain and agony I feel at this very moment is worse than getting kicked in the balls 23 times in a minute. It’s just a guess, an educated one.
But you wouldn’t know, Jane. You wouldn’t know, because you are not here. You are never here. Why the fuck are you never here?
I need you tonight, Jane, more than ever. I need you to touch me, hold me, grab me, kiss me all over my body, creep inside my head at my most vulnerable, and fuck my brains out for 2 hours straight.
And I need you to do it again and again and again until these thoughts, this crazy, this rage in me have lost their energy to move, to exist.
Until these demons, the darkness, the screaming silence, and the methodical chaos have ceased to exist.
Or until I, eventually, cease to exist.
All I want, Jane, is a purer me, with you filling in every cell of my body. It’s the only way for you and I.
And I want all of it to be intense, oh so intense! Like being struck by 240 volts of electric current right between my eyebrows, straight into my pineal gland.
And I want to embrace that Kundalini feeling, even if just for a moment before I dissolve into the chaos of the unknown.
Jane, you need to look at my face and realize that I want you inside of me each time with even more intensity and passion. It doesn’t matter what and where it all leads to.
At this moment, that’s all we need, Jane. At this moment, that’s all that matters, before we both cease to exist.
And if this ain’t love of the highest spiritual nature, then what the fuck is?
The kind of writing that shows up uninvited, barefoot, at 3 a.m.
