All he wants to do is love. And by love, I think I mean appreciate. The dog, he does have a higher calling, a geas of reproductivity, and nothing will repress that. But he has a…. a weight? His compulsion, born of guilt, is to be crushed out of existence. He does not wish to look through, but see into, and to possess, and ultimately, like the tentacles of consumerism, be consumed himself, swallowed up by the leviathan, which is to run life in reverse, back to that zero of closed blankets, body heat, an eternity of silence and, and prayer. There are things which catch his eyes, people who seem distant, uncertain, and innocent, and he clings to them, yearning for the moment in which he can breathlessly declare “oh, my baby, i love you so!” until it becomes a mindless, cthonic babble, “iluvuiluviluvu”, and she begins to wonder what process is at work here. She realises that love is the ocean, she is the stone, their sex is the string that binds them and their relationship, a long pier they have just tumbled off, into infinity. He’s back in a narcotic state of soft flesh, friendly features, scent intoxicating like lavendar. He looks up with puppy dog eyes into her vague astonishment and he falls to his knees, and is actually appearing to beg, in a state of rapture, thanking her as some higher entity. What she wanted was simple – a nice guy, or a good fuck. What the hell did she get but some little boy romantic who crumbled at the sight of a short skirt?
– Rainer Heydrich, “The Secret Teachings of Cardinal Pope”