I’m so into you it makes me mash my teeth together. It makes me wring my hands. It makes me sweat. I’m so into you I think about you all the time: sometimes you’re touching me, sometimes we’re talking, sometimes you’re just walking around doing nothing in particular. I’m so into you I have dirty thoughts when you’re fully clothed, and doing something innocuous like sitting on the couch or flossing your teeth or tying your shoes. I’m so into you I want to know everything about your past — the cities you lived in, the jobs you had, the bands you played in, the siblings you fight with, the people you slept with. I’m so into you I do nothing but stare at you when I’m with you and I know you’re talking because I’m soaking up every word but I’m also looking at your mouth, your eyes, your neck, your hair, your ears, your fingers. I am so into you that while I’m doing that staring, I am trying to find some flaw — just one — something that would make you unattractive to me, that would end this insanity I’ve been forced into feeling — and I can’t find anything, except the way your shirt rides up a little in the front so I can see your stomach and the way your hands move like they’d feel amazing on my back and then I’m just mashing my teeth again and trying to seem like nothing’s happening.
We are living in a culture entirely hypnotized by the illusion of time, in which the so-called present moment is felt as nothing but an infinitesimal hairline between an all-powerfully causative past and an absorbingly important future. We have no present. Our consciousness is almost completely preoccupied with memory and expectation. We do not realize that there never was, is, nor will be any other experience than present experience. We are therefore out of touch with reality. We confuse the world as talked about, described, and measured with the world which actually is. We are sick with a fascination for the useful tools of names and numbers, of symbols, signs, conceptions and ideas.