This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.


He knew the beetle was there, feeding on the roots of the trees and polluting the air through the drains and the open manhole covers. It was the reason his foreskin was so sore and couldn't fuck without pain and blood. He didn't know how to break it to her, he didn't want to upset or scare her. But he'd seen it in his dreams, buried deep beneath the water pipes and electric cables that carried the TV signal. It was all his fault. The summer when he was ten and he'd tortured them with fire and needles. Now it had come for him. Sending it's ungodly spores out into the air, turning everyone against him. Insects despise our individualism, our liberty. Like cockroaches in america, the beetle is waging a principled war.

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