This is the pleasure principle of insatiable desire told simply:
A girl and a boy meet (full-grown), or a girl and a girl meet, or
worse than better yet a boy and three girls meet.
Coddling phrases: They share stories, chit-chat and mesmorizing
rituals of flesh. Banter too!
Some tire early. And most suffer ennui's guise. Not sure, confusion-
filled when the rituals become tiresome too.
The truly sick ones encountering their plight of boredom are
earnest in their desire for MORE. Not more sex, per se. But harder
sex, more orifices, variations on pain. No more need be said about
this type-You might grok the picture in fullness?

Then there are the fortunates who, knowing the mesmorizing rituals
of flesh actually constitute real longing for union, will seek out
psychosis as a rite. Transfiguration. Embracing and embodying the
obvious insanity of conjoinment being a labored and even a
disdained act of accompaniment. You and these too tranfigure
mesmorizing rituals of flesh out of the doggéd night into the wisps
of smoke spiralling in patterns of madness and esctasy which
consume the very candlelight which itself has a kind of allure, a
nimbus of gravity, purity and rainbow essence. More on the smoke
though. As it bifurcates, as if torn, it tells cunundrums (riddles)
to the lover both. For they are always separate and never were. In
these instants, however long they last <facetiously>, the eternal
doorkeep gingerly tenders the door forth and inward all at once in
a subtle and graceful motion between dimensions. Am I not a door to
your window? You, a girl raised by power upon magnitudes for whom I
begin a quiet chant here of ruminating sillyness? Or, will the very
wrenching which is the manner of smoke be a node in a network of
doorways opening upon the infinite chaste shell of a man who still
is not lost along with his voice. Surely ripeness is truth nature.
And when we are ready to have sex, let's have it. I am ready. But,
on the nature of this division called bifircation we are sad men
living all alone. "I"d like to use a metaphor but I can't get
beyond this shit." I am not saying give of your self
indiscriminately. It is more like the tendency to associate the Tao
with What Dreams may Come which is Shakespeare and Rachmoninoff.
Let's hope we don't grow overly simplistic. Our sensitivity to
eachother does not merit this love poem, does it? And my ache is
told in the suffering endedness paradigm. Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.
Pretty word if fulfilled! I am scared for you and the forcing of
joy. My heart reaches out to you, as it were, if you will allow
triteness in the name of something extremely better. I do get you.
I get that you thirst to overcome the pain of the world as I do.
And when faced with the grotesque atrocity of having so-called
friends force upon you a night of debauchery you took it upon
yourself to enjoy it despite yourself and the pain they chose to
inflict upon you. That is genius. That is the lilly-livered pest
rising phoenix. I do not believe resurrection is inevitable; it
takes a singular stoicism, brilliance, alacrity, tenaciousness and
kinship with principles outside this realm. Also, plain gestalt
vibing. Yet, you have this. I assimilate this from the photos and
also from what you have shared. What you have is special. It is
worth a grand celebration on a cosmic scale. Ultimately you will
choose whether you extinguish your own flame-which I do not wish
for-or embrace the one you are. This is all in the way of saying I
am in love with your freedom. And that I believe you belong in the
camp gently love making love gently along with the poet, musician
and hippy not excluding Jesus Christ himself. Who must have been a
fantastic lover himself considering he was a master of reality.
Yes?