Bodies are not made of honeycomb. They’re not made of wax. Ever since the invention of skin, the human body has been a vessel of mystery—a purposeless shadow of oneself, something to be revered for its complexity but also never understood. And perhaps that’s the point. Maybe we’re not supposed to understand our purpose here. But if that’s the case, what’s the point in carrying on like this? Carrying on like a puppet of some ancient deity with pubic hair as thick as fishermen’s ropes. There’s no point to any of this.
