Strangeway

The writer speaks, which makes me right, I am right, because I write, and I lonelily exist to say what I want to say, what I believe, what I want, what I understand, of the world, the world in shambles, that it is, who could it be but me, who has died in letters…

“Give it to me, the ass that you crave, round and shaped, in the texture of a grape, and with that penetrate (in parenthesis) the things you want to write about me!” my character says immediately but it is a complete misunderstanding, of who I am, who I want to be, who I will become.

“You have written me and you know for what, give me the power to please. The girth, here it will be filled, in an infinite amount of possibilities, to all directions, it will travel across galaxies, even into your own mind!” the character screams, tears streaming down his eyes, a war cry stirring inside the throat, the eye cracking, the bloodied voices that from him reside.

I want to write, and lie, and smile, and understand, what propels me forward, an innermost devastation that comes from the purified mind of my eternal search for happiness. That is the one who writes, and if I write, then I must be right, and whatever I write, it must be right, and if my character desires for sexiness, the one that can envelop the world egregiously, then it must be by my will, and my brain, and the rain of my brains, that there it must be written so, that he can execute his love and never be alone.

“I am pretty and I am worth something, I am not just a character, I am a lover, I am ready to do whatever I must, in order to obtain pleasure,” the character says.

He has no name and he will never say anything again, that is what he will repeat for the rest of his days, and I write it like that, with tears streaming down the real’s world face. It is true, then, that it will exist just in that momentous occasion, desiring and loving, in love with himself, splaying his body so that he can excite those lesser beings that I have written for him, and from that little second, the one that lasts like a lovemaking session, I can be bestowed that which was always meant for me: the ability to make people horny with my words, the sickening reality, that yes, yes I am a writer, and will not be deterred, torn, devoured, astonished, beaten or forgotten.

This is the character that I will love, through which I will love from this moment on, which will grow when he needs to and will fade when he needs to, who will be strong and burly, and will be vulnerable and sweet. In a pace like this, with a writer hand through this, a motion from the wrist to the fist, the climax will be reached, and the story will end, the character will be forever immortalized in a list written by me, and I will see to it, that I can write again and again, forever in pleasurable ways, of a nice penis.