Limbs
You are among.
If you think about it, it is too disgusting. Limbs. Limbs are the worst part of an event like this. Event--a clipped little word, prim. A sales event. A Mazda. A Lexus. Limbs are too much like machines. Torsos are one thing, but. Limbs.
You're surprised its not the holes. The gaping maws and nethermaws, lips and tongues and labia all askew, smacking, humming. And the blank stares of naked breasts, big dumb flesh eyes. Assholes, god forbid, blind cyclopes. You are blind because you shut your eyes. Your arms are splayed Christlike and something wet is moving on your leg.
You think about later. Later you will walk home. You will smell like something, something soothing. Anodyne, the scent of past sex. Your nose doesn't know if it was love.
On the street you'll see a guy in plaid entering a bar, bouncer clap on the shoulder, hey. Smiles and heys, but why? You got here, you remember, because you wondered why. Why these mundanities, why the skewing of, why the blistering over of, why the, why anyone...
Why anyone, you think, seeks anything other than--oh. It's sex and. And death and yes. And no. There is nothing else to find. It can be horrid but, but at least. At least, at least.