Sexual Anonymous on how I yearn for modesty and chastise performance when I'm stuck in a rut.
Apparently, should I be brazen or shameless
The life of an imperfect sex god within a narrativeless subtraction, made for the sexual impulse and not being able to be entertaining the other typographical conceptions.
Wish it was not distracting from doing my duties, it wiggles, it fantasies worthless axiologies onto parasocial visages. It can't be contained, it deludes, and it traps itself within its euphoric prison.
This kaleidoscope of churning reproduction along with a demand that I need to get back to meaningful work, the detachment of pride and needing to express something.
Guilty? Self-pitying? Nah, this is yet another confessional memoir in respect of all the complicated sexual novels that I'm reading.