I adore these maladies for they deliver the pate of my soul to a rapturous abyss.

To a world that is so small yet immeasurable.

To a state of mind, which is barely complex but hardly fathomable.

I love the gentle caress of my own flesh's heat.

I love the light, affectionate strokes of the saline beads,

which quietly slither out of my subtle pores.

And as they bathe my slothful corpse,

the radiance of my internal sun fades into oblivion.

Numbness envelopes every part of me.

It has made me invincible against all pain.

But its nonexistent thorns make me frail even from the delicate hands of innocent angels.

Ethiopia conquers my genuine spectacles;

torments my unholy temples with ethereal flame.

The mystic dragon of the great wall lurks in my nostrils.

It steals the virgin air and banishes the warm prey of greens.

My gustatory slug incessantly revivifies my arid lips;

desperately trying to preserve its ephemeral beauty and salvage its crimson identity.

Thunders bounce in my fragile bosom.

They fill my orifice with fictitious seeds of manhood.

My gluttonous stomach feels no hunger.

It feeds on nothing but eternal heat,

heat coming from fire and brimstone of the outer darkness,

which gently tickles my soles.