Imagine being swept along by an
invisible hand,
By the flushed flesh of your own urges,
By the hordes of others who would be
just like you,
By the hordes of others whom you would
be just like,
To the perfect place for so many to
congregate
To a bacchanal feast of all that's
tempting to the senses,
Consuming whatever you feel, whatever
you will, at will,
Consuming whatever you feel, whatever
you will, without will.
If you can still read this, there may
be hope for you.
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