An obsession with being clean, cleanliness as an absolute savior of you all, those who do not perspire do not live in denial of their own stink. Their own stinkiness and malfunctioness work as a reminder of their own mortality; disease |-| deadline |-| a weekend soon to be over |-| your biological condition showing yourself the door |-| an unexpected overhaul to remove your undesirable body from Earth’s shelf. It reeks and it conspurcates everyone else’s sunny, shining Saturday. If you do not want to die as we speak, please lock yourself inside a windowless room until it’s time.

Malaise, psychic malaise, is natural and should not be avoided. Real pain is produced as a quintessential good for society’s adjustment and correct behavior. Machines produce it, modern factories produce it, power plants have it as a counter-poison. Real pain is not a glitch, it is regalia for the unprivileged who suddenly crown themselves grand dukes of labyrinth.

If you ever come out of that room, I’ll be there.