While envisioning tight sphincters strangulating the journeyman, the mathematician accelerated the arrival of what would eventually be a crusted milky stain on the surface of the cotton fibers composing a burgundy turtleneck. Such cinematography, lacking in direction, but exceeding in effect and repose. Of course, such repose is the obvious aftermath of such invigorated endeavor. Yet, since the dice of perpetuity were thrown he has felt trapped in the role, not unlike Duchovny preserved within the plasticized tube of the age. Eventually the climax fades from mind, memory, time, but never from the tube.
But while this stain was still fresh, a precious scent permeated the comfortable space. The aroma of creme sipped from a blackened basin, a medium of smoke enhancing the luxury of climax. Reminiscent of more exotic company, the mathematician spent a lonely evening contemplating his sorrow with the dreaded imagery of awaking to the sensuous nothing on the morrow. Always a dream, seemingly conscious, the stream ebbs and flows through time and space, whatever that might be. Pulling and twisting and tugging and roaring until all are drowned by its cold embrace.