How had he felt about being that mad guinea pig?

Far rather would have been a Guinness pig, 


To be cased and archived 

and pounced on like that was a weird sort of life:

surely that you could see.

And between testing and testing and wresting and 

writing, and posting and 

hosting and being roasted in 

interrogative senses,

he realised there were gonna have to be 

limits on the responsibilities he should demand of 

himself: one day, it most assuredly did have to end.

Spending the fin of his 

ways, as a salve and slave to unquenchable first,

had become utteringly 


producing: reducing him from the man he could be to

the creature of terrible emotional plaything:

a ball to be wrapt up 

and unstrung 

and wound up,

and then



like change 

of a loosening nature: the culture of an almost criminal 


the culture of permanent hurt.

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