Woman always remains several, but she is kept from dispersion because the other is already within her and is autoerotically familiar to her. Which is not to say that she appropriates the other for herself, that she reduces it to her own property. Ownership and property are doubtless quite foreign to the feminine—at least sexually. But not nearness. Nearness so pronounced that it makes all discrimination of identity, and thus all forms of property, impossible.

Woman derives pleasure from what is so near that she cannot have it, nor have herself. She herself enters into a ceaseless exchange of herself with the other without any possibility of identifying either. This puts into question all prevailing economies: their calculations are irremediably stymied by woman’s pleasure, as it increases indefinitely from its passage in and through the other.¹

Touch these things. Synch. Touch some thing. Sooner, or later, looking to be looked at, held in a hold. Semiliquid softness, softer when gelled. No one knows the love that is felt by another. Felt. Things that cannot be understood are the most mesmerizing.

I had sexlogic implanted and used it.²

Dirty pillow split hump. Speculative hole gash slide tunneled. Forms move in on one another, synthesis symbiotic. Form can hold another form, can be another form. Form feeling is infinite, has no end or beginning, only a voice. If heard, perceived, believed, or seen.

My mouth blooms like a cut.