and on the 20th day i create a 20th day and say it is a 20th day. creating never ends. there is no rest. only restrooms in which one doesn’t rest but sometimes ruminates. mundane ruseday whysday turday deepdish sexday punday merdeday tweezeday doubtday wurstday eggface assday punday monsday ruesday neversday scurvyday pizza fuckday pundit undies books questions hungry mcdonalds apes sctv lunar crazy youtoo ootoob tumtomb yahweh toodays
today i begin an experiment of satisfying various lusts in public spaces (i have performed endless lewd acts for the benefit of strangers but have been anxious to graduate from sex, which has become so facile, that leericism of the asses), riding streetcars to wait for an opportune moment.
on the 504 during afternoon rush hour, eastbound, i seize it. 2 humans a few seats in front of me are talking tediously of tedious things. i stretch my neck, open my mouth to the trained and predetermined size, and bite the right one’s head off, returning my head to my seat, munching peacefully. everything becomes predictable. the left one screams. others join. the driver contacts the authorities. i swallow and listen to mira calix.
it is 20° today and it is early march at the 42nd latitude. now i don’t know much about history or geography or nosology or scurrility but i do know what march is for.
the conclusion. the public prefer public sex to public violence visually, but the latter to the former narratively. for they will talk far more of the head getting bitten off than the head getting licked.
and on the 20th day i visit a mausoleum to renew my love with the dead and there see an oracle undressing. i follow her pointed tits to their destination and descend the crypt. squirrels and scholars, lemmings and lesbians, aspirins and aspergers dance lecherously, bound like cadaver and surgeon. i join, shedding my sex and my species, and enter the orgy of the dead.
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