Does your body belong to you? Does it do what you tell it to? If the man comes over and through, Does your body belong to you?
The Male is perhaps a rough symphony. Cymbals, trumpets announcing an entrance, a presence. A back talk, eye rolled, sighing concerto that hits the highest note of retreation. But you come back for the elation, like a Beethoven, a cloud number ten. Just when you think It's finished, just when you think itβs time for bed.