(Traditional) Homosexuality as a cathartic ritual for artistic creation

    """
        -- Qué te metes? Y no me digas que pollas.
        --Pollas. *
    """

    You stare at something close to your face, and then your sight diverges and the world becomes twice itself. And you wish you could have a camera and capture the moment "this must be art". The same, it is, but being born this way, never can get rid of the multiple vision of the deep penetration. You ride the night with a dick up your hole, down your throat and then you have it: the phallic smash on your brain scatters your infinite eyes down each corner, a superposition of scenes all held together by a huge, hard, long which unifies the world in a symphonic moan.

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    Dizzy and exhausted, I walked down to the level of the Spree. I wasn't high anymore and now everything seemed wrong. I could see the corpses left by the war so long ago; I could see those killed on the river when trying to scape from the soviet sector, their souls floating forever at the exact spot on the water. I could see the streets stuffed with their inert spirits and I tried to walk aside, not to step on them, but there's so much death in this city, everywhere... I tried not to profane anything, but then I retched and then I had to throw up all the cocks I'd blown that night, many of them falling onto the floor, the most of them flowed down the river, string of though.

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*This must be translated as: "What drugs do you take? And don't tell me it's cocks. " "Cocks. "