A fool’s play, re-enacted a thousand times per minute, minute by minute, across the suburb, people indulging their innate need to rub their sensitive fleshes together, to serve little purpose but to relieve their built-up lusts, excitements leaving them bereft of attraction, See Ya, unless in reproduction, for the world needs ever more fools to consume in famine, plague and war, but sex excels as well in transmitting diseases, specializing in mucous membranes and blood, so we would as well not witness the vulgar escapade except in the details of their cavort lies the very prick of conscience, the terrors and horrors of unworthy loves, the damnedest of jesters, the self important though broken bully, the wrecking ball swinging to destroy everything in his path, even in creation he engenders destruction. And yet she could seem to love him at least for an over-long period spurred at the limits to loyalty, even some measure of fidelity, her eyes rolled back, deliberately, blind to the truth about the man poised to enter her.
Lord Malinov, Song of Songs
