Ambition is undeniably dysfunctional and derivative of desire for what isn’t rather than appreciation for what is.
What doesn’t matter is perishable. It will die.
We have immense, lifelong, neglected satisfaction, locked in basements beaten with long implements of moralism. Umbrellas always nearby, we complain about inconvenient rather than drink from the air and feel it on our faces, necks, hair like we used to. Like children. Why?
Something vast is here right now, in your mouth, lungs, fingertips, ankles. It’s vibrating and tickling, warming and wet, expanding and we tell it to stay behind with its mother to pioneer ungratefully to the next right insufficient thing.
Withoutwithoutwithoutside stimuli, we keep leaping to no tolerable, safe, comfortable end.
I loved you so.
I can never kiss your mouth again
Without tasting his dick.