what desperation looks like

In my thirtieth year I became filled with a wild and unquenchable wanting. I could not sate it with sin though I tried my hardest, white knuckling the miles between a sweet, arid marriage and sweaty sex on bare stretches of hardwood in naked rooms with sour towels and stale toilet paper and meltingly delectable sensation, consternation, damnation, sheer heedless hurtling into utter oblivion, my lord, o, oh and more oh.

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