Fever

The bowery of our passions, the urban sewerage strewn along with the passing of days; it caters to the very basest parts of us. Wishing to metamorphose in the feral monstrosity way, to debase yourself and become enslaved to your whims. Ah, it is decadence gilded to brilliant radiance, and in its blinding glow; the knees crumple, the head yanks back in exultation, and the primal screams of gory glory are released. These moments, the infinitesimal moments of pure release, they capture volatility at it’s finest. An explosion of thought and feelings, of every visceral psychosomatic inkling your body can muster—we become the conduit for our brain’s revelries.

Finding the beauty in the ecstasy; the wilting of reason to the betterment of pleasure. It’s a Dionysian orgy of rapture, oh sweet sickly poisonous nightshade. Alluring beauty coupled with irresistible charm, your demise is constructed in the rampant imagination that we strive to keep in temperance, yet the slightest tear in the fabric of our moral vigilance leads to the eruption. The sporadic devolution from reason to primitive orgasmic seasons. Finding it all euphoric beyond belief, the too short breathes that sustain us turn ragged, a short fuse blazing towards eruption.

The fever racks your body, seizing each muscle fiber in abandon, showing you who the true master of it all is. Repression merely lasts as long as the tenuous bond of decency can be stretched thin till breaking, once the deluge comes, in the snapping string of woeful madness, it all ends in the Armageddon of feeling. Tactile infusion, pleasure ruing you in the ruin. Our capacity for savagery is infinite. It’s only a matter of time until we are all but unrecognizable in the insatiable act of our wonton want.