madsviande

In the moment when time began, nothing was, and the nothing was full. Forces were unbound, uncounted; smallness not yet finite. In the beginning of time, things formed, and circled each other like a matador and his bull.
Every particle its antiparticle, every positive its negative charge. Everything was born free, and everywhere longed to be chained. To be completed or devastated; it never mattered which.
It was all over very quickly, of course, or we wouldn't be here. Everything is bound up now, mostly; everything in its order. But it need not be, and on some level we know it cannot always remain so. Something could always come free, knocked out of its orbit. Some new order, or new destruction, could always be reformed between us.
On some level, we must know there is another way; I do. I always know it. It is my gift to trace the paths that lead things out of their rows and into one another; the new orbits, the startling derangements. I envision their completion and their devastation; I can't not.
The men in their routines and in their rut, their thin-strapped, thin-woven, thin-veil undershirts; violence barely restrained, nakedness barely hidden. They tell themselves there is no escape, either from their devastation or their binding into orbit. They tell themselves that electrons never touch. And perhaps, much of the time, it is true. The world is so orderly now.
But I can hear it: the meaty impact of knuckles to flesh. I can feel it: the staggered ripples of light and sound, the rhythmic roll of pressure, then shock, then pain, then soreness. I can smell and taste it: the blood, the spit, the sweat, the cum. I can see it: the moment when they'll lay hands on each other.