I think of your sex. Simplified the heart, I think of your sex, before the mature daughter of the day. I touch the button of happiness, it is ripe. And die an old feeling in the brain degenerate. I think of your sex, furrow more prolific and harmonious than the womb of the shadow, although death conceives and gives birth to God himself. Oh Consciousness, I think, yes, in the free brute who enjoys where he wants, where he can. Oh honey scandal of the twilights. O dumb rumble. Odumodneurtse!