Tear out my cerebrum to be examined

Smearing oil on the perfect combination that embraces our flesh.

A disregard;

an insult;

giving your back to the product of an impeccable natural selection.

Restraining a consideration about the real you – a living fusion.

...

Even though I try to look away from the routine on which I am convulsively and repeatedly convicted to,
catwalks are filled with inner mirrors on the streets, in establishments, in the implied external vision of the world and I see myself just as I see the crowd –

...sculptured...

...into legs, into arms, into breasts, into hands, into thighs, into hair, into style.

...designed...

...into muscles, into fame, into height, into gossip, into fashion, into ignorance.

Into oil.

I will no be of oil. I will not be a product of oil. I will not be or become a stagnant brick
a splash of bind that seizes gullible self respect. I am only fictile to myself – and it is I who learns to be fictile upon another view.

I see figurines, statues, statuettes, puppets and minions, with inner esteem intensively slaved by a whip of consciousness, be reflected on a wall before me.

Image. Image. Image. Image. Image. Image.

We need imagination.