Job dreamed of open asshole flaring vagina porn. And he dreamed of it very well. They were all pages but they were living, breathing pages. Sticky crackles of a dim light reflected off their magazine flesh, but they breathed and moved in such an ornery and succulent way that could have only been truly described through a two dimensional medium.
Semen flew in the face of all convention, in the answering of all open passages, dripped again off the face of the page. Women were all mouths hanging open dripping closed, brows knit in that vociferous mock agony which supposedly was present to represent extreme pleasure to all comers, hangers on, and passers by etcetera.
Fog floats in overhung like a droopy depressed shower surrounded just outside these thin walls are hundreds and hundreds of them, bundles of life momentarily noticed of all incoming sensation when you’re actually in your body for that one moment severely aware of the plastic rotting nature of the skin, the machinery, the drives, the feelings, the nothing underneath. Ashamed of its nudeness. And having nothing there, to give back, to throw at them, to build a wall around yourself. No prime material, no wealth of resources stolen from millions of ecologically superior natives. Nothing to pull out of that center which everything else about you is so up in arms to protect. From all harm, to protect. Here is the empty spot that is surrounded. As if broken from all other recourse, our hero pulls and quickly without looking from that which he had somehow come to see as the conclusion of all he was, he pulls from there material to build the housing. It seems a limitless supply, and he pulls without thinking until a functioning, if not so perfect protective barrier engulfs that which is what he is. Then, still paranoid as all hell about attack, which had come intermittently but often throughout his life, as he peers out of the eye hole in his fortress it occurs to him eerily to cast a glance behind him, as if there could have been a sneak attack. He turns around only to see nothing there behind him. A vast emptiness seems to be what he has surrounded and he convulses in utter horror. Where had it gone? Certainly it had to have been there at one point because he had built all this from it? Nothing to hold it up, depressurized within, eventually collapsing on the occupant who still sits wondering where it all went and what had it all came from, poof. Such is the life of some men.
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