Rusted

What could be gained from the removal of the orgasm? Is it like a hinge, a bolt, or a screw? If you remove it, does the machine of sex cease to work? The act itself will still take place, surely. There are needs that people have that aren’t tied into the climax of their bodies – after all, people need to make more people, right? The human body is just a machine for making other humans, for keeping itself alive just long enough to reproduce, and then collapsing and decaying. Biodegradable! We’re all biodegradable, and eventually we’ll all be recycled. Eyes, hands, legs, feet, the brain, the orgasm – all just parts to a machine, to a factory for making machines and then collapsing. So what could be gained from removing a part?

You always saw more to the machine. What do you see in me, I wonder? You sit in that room and you write plays, of all things. Fucking plays! What purpose does a play serve? Can it reproduce? Is it churned out of a factory, does it serve a purpose and then die? Is a play a person, because the amount of time you spend with them, you’d think it would be! Waste of fucking time. Machines need fuel, and you pour yours into words. Words, words, words! Words are the smog from the smokestacks of humanity, words are the toxic waste from the reactors of the soul – words are the rust that permeates the joints of this machine. Your mind is full of rust, absolutely full of it. There isn’t a synapse, isn’t a single fucking cell in your body that isn’t tainted by it. It fills me with dread – what if it spreads? What if you taint everybody around you? What if you get to me? It pours out of you in a fucking tide!

I’ll never read your fucking play.