A Sweat-Seething of Anatomies

The music gripped Us by the neck, inserted a grubby finger inside Our accepting mouths, and a willful coercion ensued. We danced amidst primal delirium.

Thereafter, Our sweat-seething anatomies entwined and serpentined, amongst drowned-out tachycardia and hedonism. Our flickering, tungsten-lit shadows delineated My lair's walls like the Paleolithic cave paintings of Lascaux. It was a frenetic mating ritual, suffused with the bodily fluids needed to pacify the nausea and trepidation of temporal existence. 

It was Our first encounter, but unfortunately for her, it would be the last. She was a feeble-minded ideologue engrossed with politics, and babbled too much about petty things that didn't really matter after you were dead, especially post-ejaculation.


And when confronted to explain to them the meaning of the thing, The DragnMastr spoke thus:

"Do not concern yourselves with WHAT the meaning is of the thing, what matters is THAT it has meaning!"

The small crowd stewed uncomfortably in their stupefaction as He walked away from them in disdain.

Lesson: Personal meaning is most always understood in retrospect, and rarely in the present moment. Immerse yourself instead, with what makes you feel alive, while meaning ferments underfoot–you will know such things by their sticky residue.