And pleasure knows how to take my pain by the horns.
Pleasure knows better than anyone the arts of invoking oblivion, it makes one renounce without remedy the pain of absences.
Pleasure, like light, when everything invades, simply takes over the other things that occupy one, takes all the terrain in sight, conquers everything and attributes it to "I am pleasure."
Pleasure is a fleeting drug that sometimes makes you broken.
A passing being whose pulse does not tremble drowning against the mattress. Looking at you with hate and love that is his look. Making you believe, in ecstasy, that you have sown a land to reach it in the morning and discover that it is only sand, fine sand on which pleasure draws.
Without trembling, his pulse leaves us crazy to feel that we had sown a land.
Pleasure has no scruples but I can swear it has skin and I hold on.