Matthew Barney, Cremaster Cycle (3)
Sometimes, sometimes I want to insert one of my most sensitive parts of my body into a sensitive part of another’s body and take part in the temporary neurotransmitter rush when inducing friction. There are only a few pairings of such things I would find distasteful, and that set does not include tongue to nose.
I suffer the greatest illusion of the devil. I lay within the contentedness of harmony close enough to stroke entanglement and confusion. Writing in the palatable dynamism is the gravity I sought, the weight of the world I chose to forgo for separation in inner peace.
I am happy now with myself, yes. But I have a world I worked so hard to build, stable and secure, but missing critical meaning. In fact, I can hardly recall such meaning. I cannot recall ever being so happy.
