RAGE in Truth in RAGE

The metaphysical scalding hot knife presses onto the specific area of your body. Its painful itchiness trickles along the projections and networks of your nervous system. The feeling may pervade itself into your gut, up your spine and into your nape, or the any other uncomfortable locations on your body.

It’s the inaccessible tickle in the depth of one’s esophagus during a season of a sore throat. A curdling frustration that the mind cannot feasibly quell with immediate resolve. It breeds a demented sensation of lust for violence.

The insanity of rage treads a similar line to the animalistic heat of reproduction. A rabidness that only the frequency of pure violence or fornication can truly equate to. One may reach such a kinetic state of enraged psychosis that perhaps only vicious, hedonistic fucking may throttle the mind into primal ease and is the only way to halt the hysteria of such powerful feeling.

Rage is love; love is rage.