A doctor told me it was low grade Tourette’s, the internet diagnosis is autonomous sensory meridian response, a memeable quality with millions of streamable views. For me, it’s a course of soft lighting extending from skull’s base to skin’s pinnacle, every cell it touches rippling and vibrating in queue with tsunamic pace. It’s some kind of sight to see, I’m told, but I wouldn’t know, my eyes always close, my mind suddenly severed from all its endeavours. They call it disorder in some circles, but I’ll happily be broken if that’s what it means, let the electricity have me.
I found a porno on the internet. Eight minutes long, some business lady, starch white collar protruding from sensible cardigan, not plain or pretty but deviant in the field, pulled over by the roadside to rub one in. ‘Regular women squirt who you wouldn’t think,’ the caption said. Eight minutes, four driving, considerate, checks her mirrors and doesn’t look at the camera. Eight minutes, four driven, concentrating, opens her legs and closes her eyes. After she comes the screen fades, an intertitle displays ‘To be continued…’ but it’s proven empty. Below, the footer claims, ‘There is no relevant content.’