25 may 2010
How Roman Polanski escaped from the asylum
A) Ivory stairs, trash, disorder: the walls became sperm, the velocity of my veins pump in the corridor. Really -->
This hospital is a cemetery, a bedlam where inebriated mosquitos dance like cossacks on the dry piss and get fulminated by the electric dream. Apart---->
B) This morbo-doctor and his sado-helper-nurse-dominatrix took me by force to the raving lunatics' pavillion where, under a Sicilian sun, the psychos shatter themselves, and dancing cretin funks, they go to sleep suddenly, with their eyes too open, and lanterns turned on under their pillows. Really.
Fortunately I could escape.
Escape!
C) Escape toward these iv(or)y stairs: ivies of perversion (behind the).
Here there are mechanical cocks, automata graced with cunts built in PVC, rampant örgasmatrons: I'm into my synthetic paradise now, surrounded by sugar walls, surrounded by virtual human beings made of silicon and androgynous flesh.
I don't mind my mind, I'm just another rubber toy; we're just latex in this garden; a sweaty miracle of the science. Really.
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