There follows a hollow discourse on passion...
Passion is nothing. Nothing can be gleaned from it, and those extractors and expositors of sexual heat are at their bases, echoingly empty.
As empty as books, gifts, televisions, and computers.
Ponderously, painfully vacant, solidified lumps of arrogance and dolour.
If all those energies were joined, if every sex was combined, it would do nothing but spur itself up, make some loud noise and a tumult of friction, some cataclysm of cosmic fire, and then... and then!... it would collapse disgracefully, almost obscenely, in the aggressive waste of its promise.
Amounts to nothing more than grittings of teeth, clenches of fist, rushes of blood, seemingly for no reason.
Yes, and beauty is a void...
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