PAGE 38 OF A NOVEL CALLED "MINDCOCK" WHICH I NOW HAVE NO DESIRE TO EVER WRITE. HERE, OUR MAIN MAN, JEFF TURNBO, IS TALKING TO HIMSELF AGAIN WHILE DOING THE DISHES:

"See, man, all this talk is lowering me. It pushes things down, compresses it. Also, what we're doing is gonna flip. You know that, right? It has to. That's what it does, that's how it works. What's behind us will soon be in front and then we're going to suffer through the lowest form of ourselves, for a while at least. Which is pretty fucking deadly for someone in our condition. Yeah, I don't know, it doesn't matter. We need the experience of it all, right? If we're going to do what we've set out to do. Or we could just be like them I guess. Man, everything's so fucking fucked up, I'm starting to think that might not be so bad. We'd probably have some fun again at least… Goddammit! Man, I've got to eat some pussy!"