Identity... Sit yourself down in the bottom of a well with some prescription pills that you ordered from an Indian/Chinese synth company in one hand and a bottle of shochu in the other. How you got down the rope ladder to the bottom of the well, don't ask me. Pop them pills and take a swig, close your eyes as the ladder clatters just beside you. You are back in Harbin and Tsitshar at the closing days of the war. Some psychopathic Russian officer and his Mongolian sidekick flays your superior as your sphincter clenches and you spurt a volley of seed and groan in anticipation, while the edgy attention-seeking 15 year old girl/potential love interest (because you're a lolicon) gets off talking about death all the while Houllebecq caresses your scrotum with unexpectedly calloused lumberjack hands, fumbling with a cigarette in the other hand, with a deadpan neutral expression gracing his face (You don't even know how such a thing is possible. There is almost a devil like quality to his face. Nary a muscle tensed. Every part of his face in perfect alignment. You can imagine him holding a pot or something staring straight at you. You can imagine a younger not fucked up version of this face in its almost death-mask repose staring at you all the while from the corner of your eye you can see the fucker aged 80 or so years with the same god damn look that rattles you to no end. Still fappable. 10/10 would fap again) whispering into your ear :

"Au long de ces journées où le corps nous domine Où le monde est bien là, comme un bloc de ciment, Ces journées sans plaisir, sans passion, sans tourment, Dans l’inutilité pratiquement divines "

You don't know what the fuck this gaijin is saying. The familiar rushing sensation of your bladder's need to vacate itself . Except, it's not your bladder. 5HT1A ready a go-go. The creeping tingling sensation rushing, oscillating,pulsating, undulating, through your brain; 40 to 100 hz. Bradykinetic spasms transcend all thought. Your mind, body, and whatever left of your soul after. Dopamine bombards already inhibited D1, D2, D3, and D4 receptors as an avuncular excito-toxic halo of warmth engulfs the remnants of your mind. You can't think. You can't think. Your pelvic floor continues to groove like a 1940s inter-racial teenage dance-hall as you feel your larynx contracting with an O.L making tea sort of mechanical disposition.

Something something shooting animals in a Zoo. I don't know. You wake up. Jailbait is gone. Ladder is gone. Sun is gone. What time is it? Time is gone. You can't feel your legs. Ｌegs are gone.

You reach into your pocket. Thank god. Touch is not gone. You bring out your IPhone. You swipe at the screen. Fiat lux.

An illuminated stoic face gazes at you from the dark. You think you are getting hard. Penis is gone. There's no way out. You frantically swipe through the screen of your iphone, trying to put as many screens between you and the cracked out Frenchman. This isn't Madoka. You 行く again. You帰国。