An intellectual mantra on your lips. You utter these words, all of them ascending to the main mantra: …am-I-right-or-am-I-wrong…

A tactile mantra - tantra? - in the movements of your hand. You’ll smooth your lingerie ceaselessly, finding it harder and harder to fit into. You’ll feel a monstrous discomfort, close to the pangs of death. Such discomfort is sometimes felt during orgasm. Something that cannot be undone, stopped, postponed. Only endured. Only lived.. or died.

They two will connect. The intellectual and the tactile.

What to smooth, how to smooth, for whom to smooth? Smoothed, smoothing, to the cards’ laughter. We’ll manage to smooth it.

Like that guy when I was little. After some shindig, he worked like a computer storage device with audio input and playback function. He’d say: “Got something to drink?” When they’d answer: “No, let’s go for a walk in the fresh air instead”,—he’d continue: “Got something to drink for a walk?” To the words: “Or do you want to stay in bed?”—he’d calmly ask: “Got something to drink for a walk to stay in bed?” I almost killed him then.

I love you. But in the moment, you will annoy me terribly. That’s how it seems to me. Consider it my perception. Irritation and love, disgust and tenderness. No, they won’t intertwine within me, they won’t mutually influence and define each other. They’ll create an apocalyptic dissonance in my brain. My head will boil and churn, and only my tactile essence will be able to restrain me. Only my sexuality, ugly or ideal, public or antisocial, bright or amoral. I’m a maniac. I know.

Light, ultrasound, infrasound. Mixing, boiling, dissonance. Will we make it?