No, no, alas, the animal is gone from me. Still, I do propose to ache. I propose to regret and to roar at the skating mice in my skin, to unveil the vibrant and lurid pose of my own animal in full hunger, insatiable, un-owned by the rigorous matrices, the unfounded and incomplete rational constructs. No, I will not regret my denial of her inclusions, her innuendo. Ah, but an animal, but ever an animal. I, in complete denial, exist beyond temptation and beyond the living. I beyond the living. Ah, such as it seems, I have come to a quite terrible pass. She is but a ghost and my fingers are checking the boxes and writing the orders of industry, of social order, of the most important of missions—ah, of what I cry each day and no longer demand to know the lines of my own hands! I cry each day in the ever starvation of my skin. No, I will not begrudge him, not ever. He the purposeless collector, collector of all things. No, I expel this future and this life from me. Even in segregation my skin will not permit a life in hibernation and desperation.
I renounce you, father! I will not serve.
She, she her animal, she her temptress acceptance, she her will to un-skin my throne that is my very pulse.