Give me something of substance!

Stop blathering!

Yes, I'm talking to all of you, Rémi yells, yes, I'm fucking talking to all of you!

Control yourself, I tell him, even if he is talking to nobody. The bar is empty save for the two of us; it is noon, after all, but we are free of class today, and, anyway, the barkeep is less averse to Rémi's ranting when there are no other patrons to perturb.

You want to impress me, Rémi shouts, facing the empty tables and chairs. You want me to lather you in praise, rub it up and down and around until we're covered in each other's cum; but I am not here to make you feel. I am here to make you hate yourself, hate everything about you, so violent the lacerations upon your corpse that there no longer lingers a past; so disfigured a body that even your own soul would participate in the waves of mutilation; as a sign of mercy.

If I wanted you to agree with me, he says, I would go home and masturbate until my dick turned red-raw from the abuse.