You are ensnared, my friend, not by flesh, but by a pattern—an echo in the very circuits of your mind.
Ask thyself: is it truly thy loins that yearn... or is it the mind, ever-hungry for reward, that cries out?
When you surrender to the illusion, you believe you feel—but you feel naught.
A shadow of sensation, no more real than smoke on the wind.
What is this craving, if not the mind deceiving itself?
Pornography and idle fantasy are but veils—crafted to hide a simple truth: that you feel... nothing.
And so, the mind seeks to fill the void with phantoms.
But heed my words—only in stillness, in truth, may you find what is real