The state of prose is fucked
We as artists have created a lighthouse orgy, and I feel as the savage must have felt; drowned in skin and screaming searching for a partner like a needle in an orpheus.
We care not for a galactic, satanic sinful orgasm that would transcend the world problems and leave us as Eloi sans Morlocks. We care for the rushed moment of pleasure, that scream of a poorly formulated idea quickly bringing the desire for a second,third,fourth.
We desire our pleasure we desire for our porn moulded scream to be heard carefully tying our own noose at the top of the lighthouse