in an hour i can make it happen four or five times. maybe six—i’m overzealous. got nothin’ better to do in the hot cold night; nothing more singular than reaching, eyes shut, screwed shut. i’d like to think that some words, like some numbers, are more greedy than others—definitely more tempted; overwhelmed & desirous. tell me not to escalate & i will honour that, only for as long as i can hold before dissolving, never to be seen again for the next two or five minutes. an hour is a lot of time to make a thing happen, i’ve got time for an hour if it involves making lewd decisions. no other path could be as frightful or delirious, unweaving slick from tyrant digits—no more i’m absolutely stuffed i’m sure i’m mumbling as faithlessly as possible half-hoping to believe myself. an hour can be ravenous, borderline savage or vital-quiet in execution. do you glut yourself over & over, do you turn into a pulpy mess ? a justified question from no voice in particular & it is exactly knowing, only speaks for the pleasure of igniting something no less temperate than the goddamn world on fire.