Violentsuburbandeath.

SELF-DIALOGUE.

”I” Personally struggle to accept such platitudes. It gets considerably more and more difficult to accept human success, as society calls it as desire nullified itself.

What does this mean you may ask?

Well I don’t particularly know. It’s kind of a constant state where I kind of just write nonsense that comes out of my head on a whim. A constant process where my brain produces dialectical nothings.

Call that thus the moment in which I please myself inside a fluffy, warm, comfortable blanket to something.

I transferred the bootleg (女装式) magazine to my laptop and laid them down next to me, on top of my bed whilst i’m kind of just making these hand movements and gestures in repetition.

There is nothing particularly enticing about this act in particular, I did not do this out of an exciting impulse, I just have nothing resembling “produce” in which I am doing something “productive” that I can willfully choose and do.

So since I cannot physically produce things and earn wages for myself I am, as an existence akin to a self-humiliating ritual.

I produce naught but soiled oxygen. Feces and piss, in which I soil the food I eat through the body. My anus and nose produces waste with no use to anything existing whatsoever.

Though through this action, there is a conditional method in which I can produce something that can be of use to civil society: my phallus. As I continue to fondle around the erogenous zones, the ones which bestow me sensuous need of pure pleasure, in itself sensed as an object of my desire.

The produce from my cock spirts out, yet the paper towels I methodically placed down all across the room catches hold of the bodily fluid. This has become a routine regular enough to warrant methods of the masturbatory deed.

ユキコさん, the illusion of the lively subject that I was furnishing her the extra contents of my fantasy, now returns back to being a noumena. Something my mind cannot grasp the beauty of anymore. It has become a repulsion.

The pleasure of misery and guilt thus constitutes the act. The one short burst of catharsis of the sensitive organs has also imbued itself with deep, deep shame. From the shame itself extending all the way to the deepest level of embarrassment.