COMPLAIN
You are your complaints, a terrain, and, therefore, unknowingly and imperiously have no room to emerge, for they are insistent, coordinated to their self-sustained presence, in fact, immune to any outside sensibility; you are totality invoked by your own perimeter, my opposition lover who is an unprecedented corollary to initiatives’ impossibilities, my attraction so subsisted by the ubiquity of your intrusion contoured fold, a curiosity that gets me horny from its disabling push, quickened as undifferentiated object, harnessed by what prevails, suggestive in my “object-fuck” predilection.
I now recognize the verbal misconstruction I render, formed and mirrored as a contiguous complaint to you, actually a collaborative efficacy, this attempt to a materiality, obdurately trenchant, initially believed ascendent, always held, however, to reestablishment — object to object, but never even partially consonant to emerge critically.
There are no contingencies, nor empiricist forms in your complaint roll to disable. Valuations belie distinctions, but all complaint boundaries are fuck and fuck, or I form fuck want in an irradiated austerity, a special valuation as my complaint has an indiscriminate aim when displacement fills nothing, but my complaint to yours.