If pleasure is a formal, threshold phenomenon, let's push the envelope of desire to its ultimate, knock-down drag-out conflagration.

Imagine the fabulous wealth of repression: windows opening like eyes or one-way mirrors, a panopticon of carnal voyeurism and you at the center of a thousand fluctuating centers, umbilical cords spiraling from the center of you, seeing only yourself at the zenith of disorientation.

The text itself watches you feigning its mastery.