The way out is the same as the way in, panties and hymen thin as an onion skin, scheming a skein of drumskin to bang against until death opens rebirth again.
A stick-with-it-kid fingertip pushes its attitude, cues up an infallible argument, colludes with what you do not want to do, convinces to go toward going forward with its abusive sentiment, love.
Enough is an awful dressing down to accept, punishment unbefitting the one who has been getting set up, being too much abandoned when not getting what you want only lengthens aches.
How long you wait dictates the strength of anticipation’s pangs, pogrom-intense devastation or jaws grazing hell’s gates, the feels reveal all to those we want to taste, flavours everything modesty hates.
Unhastened and chastity sets in, rivets prevention on top of caution, positions in a coffin missionary comfort sent to ruin passion, so you must let lust just rule you relentless, yes.
Lest an æsthetic scripted for you in their heads permits unqualified passersby to stage-manage your life, you must grit and resist those idiots and expose to the world its own ugliness.
Intensity-of-feeling is only a symptom of living as it should be a meaningful existence you define, at once sign and signified, a self-satisfied mind finds its own way to the egress…