Women Aren't Very Bright," Rip Says. "studies

I Want To Moan And Writhe With You And I Want To Go Up To You And Kiss Your Mouth And Pull You To Me And Say "i Love You I Love You I Love You" While Stripping. I Want You So Bad It Stings.

But... What About Us? What About The Past?" She Asks Blankly. "the Past Isn't Real. It's Just A Dream," I Say. "don't Mention The Past.

Where There Was Nature And Earth, Life And Water, I Saw A Desert Landscape That Was Unending, Resembling Some Sort Of Crater, So Devoid Of Reason And Light And Spirit That The Mind Could Not Grasp It On Any Sort Of Conscious Level And If You Came Close The Mind Would Reel Backward, Unable To Take It In. It Was A Vision So Clear And Real And Vital To Me That In Its Purity It Was Almost Abstract. This Was What I Could Understand, This Was How I Lived My Life, What I Constructed My Movement Around, How I Dealt With The Tangible.

I Am Gripped By An Existential Panic.

Every Book For Me Is An Exorcism In Some Way Or Another, Working Through My Feelings At The Time.