Decapitatat Ionization in Book Title.

I need to put some words here. I’ve written two meandering entries recently- the first was a poem about dead acquaintance taxidermy & posable, life-sized horror doll friendship; the second entry delicately addressed the gender decision making process (including genders linked to other mammals, namely foxes. & sexual preferences associated with mythological concepts, such as partner absorption or unicorn-holing) & relatedly, the occasional necessity for past life exorcisms specific to the alleviation of long-term sex and/or pornography addiction. Both works of prose held considerable literary merit and intercourse prompting. Alas, the internet swallowed them up into the void of wi-fi signal disconnection hell- never to be seen or remembered in this version of reality again, unless the deep web is more significant in scope than I was previously led to believe. Something something something Matrix laws presiding.

Quoth the writer- myself, respectably: “Fuck you, Prosebox. You fucking suck.”