The mere visual conception of copulating couples, whether real or a fruit of my imagination, sets my heart ablaze like firewood. The realization that I am never seen nor known—for this never happens—engenders a pharaonic hatred within me. While I use maladaptive daydreaming to self-regulate these emotions, others savor that which the world has vehemently deprived me of. The simple idea of contact wounds me; touch: the exclusion from this sensory experience. Loneliness for me, spasms for them.
