HE SLAMMED HIS HEAD AGAINST THE WALL...
He slammed his head against the wall. It felt good to be alive. Things really matter where they matter...and this moment mattered. He slammed his head again, and then again. The plaster turned pink, and then started to run bright crimson. Pumping blood, fresh blood, even blood, the nectar of angels, the snort of the gods. You always need to know when you are alive, and you always need to test that knowing. He slammed his head against the wall, and slammed it again. With every slam, there was a spark, a cosmic spark of lust and needing. He staggered, he wavered. Exhaustion, he was exhausted, he was spent. But sliding underneath that exhaustion, underneath the blood, the snot, the saliva that covered his face, covered the wall, covered the room, was exhilaration, fantasy and ecstasy. So it happened, the cosmos opened, the ether absorbed. His face was battered, bloodied, bruised, and he was crying, wailing, but it was absorbed, every fine detail was sucked up by heavens, and angels, and demons, and gods. Who couldn't be an addict to pain, who couldn't be in love with pain, in love with the feeling, the notion, the dream of pain? It was god given, and it was god taken, the absorbency of the supernatural, the real essence of the cosmos. He was the vessel of pain, the conduit loved by heavens sent.
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