To Die

I undressed myself. I wanted sex—I wanted sex—I wanted sex—I wanted sex.

I climbed into bed with my wife.

She wanted sex with me. She always wants sex with me.

When I discharged myself this time into her, I was feeling myself banging as high up into her as I have ever gotten myself up into her.

I had just done the same with another woman who always wants sex with me, too.

There is another woman that I do the same with.

There is another woman.

There is another woman. There are five women who always want sex with me. They are always ready. It does not matter when or what or where, but they are ready.

I have a great deal of money which I have earned. I have physical beauty for a man. I have intelligence. I have work to do which I love to do, but women are what I prefer to anything, to lie down with them, the turning to touch the woman and knowing I will be received for sex as soon as I wish to be welcome.

I have been at it like this, this way for years. It does not matter when I will die. I have had everything I have ever wanted.

I should die now.

There should be a killing at my house.

There should be much, so much more for me, which I am not able to conceive of.