Butterfly sex

The past happens to hold beautiful moments, and its images will only fade if we let them. Therefore, say their names under the bridge or inside a cave; the echo will help us remember.

Orwell reminded me of the nature of time. Time will always remain constant and have control over us, kick our butts. The older we get, the more we hustle, which means we become more anxious, and we pay less attention to trivial things. It’s not until we are seniors that we will stop and look at things and learn to appreciate life.

I think I am just pretending to be wise here.

Well, at least this is how I imagine things to be, but the truth is that I imagine a lot of things, and I prefer them that way because I don’t give them legs; therefore, they will never kick me. I don’t like being kicked. I won’t give them arms, either, as I don’t like being elbowed. It’s that simple.

I went into the woods with a friend last weekend to do some exploring. Most of the trees were wounded, sick and bleak but still standing on their feet, creating air for us to breathe. I had a little bit of an oxygen overdose, but I needed it. Some trees were ugly–bulimic, to be exact. On the other hand, there were fat trees too. Strangely, I see people in trees.

I saw butterfly sex; they didn’t like me watching and got too embarrassed, making love in the air.

Acorns were falling on my head. This is how you get my attention; this is how you hit on me.

After hiking in the woods for nine hours, I slept quite well. However, I did have freaky dreams like little elephants with two trunks and wings swimming underwater.

And there was a man who was eating a hot dog with thick blood on top, which I mistook for ketchup. It turned out I bit into it.

Some other dreams you don’t want to hear about, but I’m sure at some point Dali’s “Metamorphosis of Narcissus” appeared briefly. I can’t refrain from letting a series of dirty thoughts enter my head when I look at that piece (which is my favourite of his). What do you mean, fingers? All I see are a man fucking a woman from behind, and she happens to have an egg-shaped head. No, no, she’s not stupid. You want to enter the center of her head and eat the yolk, but you won’t ever get there. It’s not that she doesn’t want you, but she wants to be the first to enter it herself, do you understand? But first, she has to cum.

Weird that my other favourite Dali piece is “In Voluptas,” in which I don’t see naked women; I see the face of Captain Spaulding from Rob Zombie’s Devil’s Rejects.

I might not always recognise much in the clouds, but I see many things in paintings, like dirty things that I don’t really understand. I think I’m too disconnected during sex, you are supposed to let the brain go, which I do, but there’s something in me that I can’t connect with (yet).

And you see, that’s Ellen’s problem, too, except that I know how she can be healed. As for me, I need to find another way.

Butterfly sex, who knows.

Neurosurgeon.

Elephant trunks.

Do you think about crazy stuff when you’re numb? Like the other night, I woke up and forgot for two seconds who I was and where I was. It was two seconds of thrill, and some of it is still with me. I felt like I had the power to recreate.

Then I played some Beck music and realised that I was still high from the forest air. I saw two moths, however, not having sex.

No, I don’t need to get laid now. I haven’t even been touching myself. I’m just hungry for progress in my life, and I am working hard on it. And it happens that my imagination conjures up pictures of pleasure, which in real life don’t feel the same as they look, although butterfly sex is a bit of a turn-on.

When moths have air sex, they must look beautiful while exchanging coloured scales.

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