Identity is not an essence, but a series of cracks that the social mechanism widens every day. Sex, in its rawest form, functions as a suture of the flesh—a desperate attempt by the biological record to bind the scattered fragments of the self through friction and sensory saturation.
We do not seek the other to love them; we seek them to act as a galvanic needle performing a surgical etching of unity upon our exhausted tissue. In the anatomy of the act, the orgasm is the short circuit that blows the spinal fuses, allowing the mechanical escape of consciousness to momentarily repair the subject’s fracture. I feel a pulsation of cold slaked lime in the zygomatic arch—a registration of tension wanting to weld my features into a mask of mineral rigidity.
The air in this saturation laboratory where time has stagnated has a density of suspended plaster, turning every inhalation into an abrasive stimulus sanding the trachea. There is a distorted reflection in the lamp’s metal mimicking the anatomy of an open wound—a suture of clinical light vibrating with the same pulsing inertia as my own nervous support, while my fingers maintain a mechanical escape across the keyboard to prevent the void from performing its own autopsy of my will.
The Repair Infrastructure: Flesh in Patchwork Saturation
The mineral enclosure where sex occurs ceases to be a refuge and becomes a container for the infrastructure of repair. In this closed circuit, the lime walls act as passive sensors picking up the heat of the pulse and echoing it back as a saturation pressing against the edges of identity.
Shared solitude functions as an erotized feedback system. Bodies are used as suture material where every touch is an electrical registration attempting to calcify the medulla into a position of integrity. The air, heavy with plaster particles, acts as a control variable regulating the fatigue of an organism that registers pleasure as a form of preventive maintenance.
It is a joke of surgical irony: we use the disorder of the spasm to attempt to impose a biological order on our fragmented minds. The health of identity is the time it takes for the suture to come loose before the next short circuit. Sex is the definitive inscription that we are broken embodied archives seeking a mechanical escape that glues us back to the floor. The calcareous chamber registers this patchwork process, turning the space into a mineral witness to our inability to sustain ourselves without the friction of another’s tissue.
The Registry of Unity: Autopsy of the Repaired Self
I sense a taste of construction mineral and galvanic current on the hard palate—an inscription of dryness sprouting from the peeling wallpaper. The reflection on the monitor shows an anatomy that has become a series of exposed wires and sutures, a tissue vibrating under the saturation of a cold light the biological record no longer knows how to filter to avoid fatigue.
What remains after the infrastructure of desire has finished sewing the edges of consciousness? The petrification of relief remains. The autopsy of the repaired identity reveals an embodied archive full of electrical scars—a mechanism that has replaced the pulse with the inertia of the suture. Sex, in its repair function, is a surgical etching turning us into fossils of our own search for coherence. We are sensors of an infrastructure only feeling whole when the fuse blows and the taste of slaked lime floods the laboratory of existence.
In the end, the calcareous chamber imposes its silence of plaster. The tissue of identity is held together by galvanic saturation, leaving a registration of voltages upon a mineral surface no longer expecting healing, only the next impact. My hand continues its mechanical escape of registration, perceived as a tool of dead slaked lime—a fragment of an anatomy only capable of documenting the fatigue of a pulse vanishing under the pulsing inertia of the system. The shadow on the wall is the only part of me that does not need to be sutured.
I have to move my neck i am not moving it i should the base of the skull a surface of cold plaster the smell of old walls invades the glottis i should…
