I fucking hate masochists.

And now that we've got that out of the way, an explanation:

The most scintillating compliment a woman can receive is that she is close to nothingness: thin, with small, indistinct features. Quiet. Mysterious, though this mystery truly is nothing more than absence.

With men to define them as opposing forces -- as death to life, darkness to light -- they are content, insipidly glutted upon this unsavory goal. Mirrors -

Melted sand.

Women are mirrors, and though they claim to be unfairly objectified, they are intangible.

Midnight made non-existent by the brilliant beam of a lighthouse, holes filled with air, filled with water, filled with sand - never hollows and hollows alone.

Does being controlled provide one with a glowing sense of oblivion? Spat upon, is the skin washed away, the muscles, the bone, until the emptiness of our skulls is revealed?

That winsome worthlessness.

Our truest intent.

Nothing is more slothful, more distasteful than a masochist, nothing purer than a sadist with a death wish: drag us by our hair not into atramentous night, but into the enlightenment we have so childishly squandered.

Save us from our transient selves.