Though you ask me to ravage you,
if I left right now I would:
(1) have to face the cold of the outdoors;
(2) have to find your apartment, which
(2a) I only know to be somewhere on Bronson, which
(2b) is a very long street.
Then I would:
(3) have to perform in bed;
(4) have to wake up tomorrow, and
(4a) regret not doing the work that I had left tonight, and
(4b) regret agreeing to meet my professor at nine.
No. Scheiße. This is simply not possible.
I don’t know how to tell you this.
There is an army of dead soldiers on my desk
reminding me of nothing except how little my death will be.