I am the stranger . . . a sick desire and need for the explosion in the abyss. The narrative of bourgeois sentimentality and cozy comfort tales churns the sickness within me. And yet . . . I’ve been exploded before in the recesses of the popular occupations of the many. A new washout questions: what narrative of the dark night, with my human heart remains—possible for adventurous explorations? An adventurer of the spirit is this stranger, who finds the welcoming of comfort upon the asphalt of the after-hours instead of the comfortable bedsheets contorted into the body of a beautiful lady. There is that lust pre-occupying the many for the pleasures and principles of the sexes. One among himself? What is the market when it closes and that other market opens? I’ve known the open market of my desire, but not to return to narratives already explored, yet to deny the bourgeois victory. Is this stranger alone in his war? The fine-arts of my combative peers wage some combat, but I have that sick desire for blood. I lust for the intravenous. This sickness compels me into the role of the stranger. If I find hostility in the other, it’s in the origin family I share space with, for I cannot dissolve into my demonic manifestation of cruelty for the total welcome of what is thought strange.
