It is our relaxation that we enjoy most in our nights of festivities. A relaxation which will lead us into a sensual climax. Not necessarily one. Till exhaustion will calm us once again. Satisfied we will sink into sleep. Private once more. Thoughts turning on the world or our world for we are possessed by both, the first containing the second. The world, that contains us. Our world contained within us. To find it in the world we must put it there in such a way that it will remain. After us. Those who will come after us we love because in them we may be formative. Mechanism of will. We wish to bring the world containing us where possible within us. We contain it. Wish to plant ourselves as one would a seed. That we have more ways than one leads us to consider each in the light of result. There is a choice in the matter, to some extent. And so we choose. Think of ourselves in a world of matter, being by nature sentimental we choose to concentrate on feeling. Our world of feeling, a world we can but barely realise in this world., is that which we wish to grow. First we draw it out of ourselves, transferring it to a portion of the material world. The world if infinite then this portion of no fixed dimensions of proportion to the whole, though admittedly we feel it to be small bordering on insignificance. Once aroused we desire to be satisfied. To this end we commit ourselves. Once committed we come under the power of our world which pulls us to it as we pull it from ourselves. This power is our vainity. That we should always remember and admit. Yet the world feeds our vainity. We believe we are not normal and hope we are not worse. Surprised and somewhat disappointed to feel that, were it not for our careful cover as a monastery of monks, we should be regarded as definitely not normal. Their definition. Their conception, almost. The normals. If they knew, that is. Thank god, raised his ass off the bench to pass wind with rebellious flourish. Thank god we fool them. To the world, normal. In secret, ourselves. Only in private, in a selective secrecy can the world and our world merge. A force in this world opposes all secrecy but its own. There is our struggle. You, hand on pupil’s thigh, are our reward.