I've attached this to my brain.

The filter is removed. My thoughts and feelings drawn out on the screen.

With a buffer. Like on portable cd players to prevent skipping. Those buffers read ahead every second, if a skip occurs, the buffer fills it in with the data taken out of the read ahead buffer. It's been explained in better ways. Without a buffer, the product of my mind would be as a skipping CD--incomprehensible garbage. My how I love that word.

The unit reads ahead one sentence or one paragraph at a time. Until it reaches a natural stopping point. Therefore one string of mental data could fill up an entire buffer sequence. Unfortunately I have a faulty attention span, so we will never know the limits of the buffer.

No it's big enough for my mind. A simple model, functional, but simple. Scarred by battles between temptation and will. Drugs and loneliness.

Tick. It makes a noise. Tick. Flashes in front of us. Tick. Repeat. Tick. Turn. It stops. Reminder: Driving is an act unto itself. It requires full attention. Do not forget your turn signal. Forget the radio.

Fuck fuck fuck. throb pulsate. In out in out innnn out. Make this into poetry. The height of orgasm, that singular moment when all perfectly asserts. Pinnacle. And then it is done. Like a job well. Suddenly the reality of foul smelling sticky vagina, sweaty balls, various strands of crud and smegma return. Animals in heat. How ridiculous!

Natural man would have it. The Master of the Mechanism. Proof that sex is a mechanism--male semen production system. Regardless of how you feel, that semen will be produced. This fact, obviously, affects behavior geared towards the semen shooting mechanism. Into a cum dumpster.

Natural man lurks behind the shadows of ideas, sabotaging credibility.