You may think it is preachy. The underlying message of love. The art between two lovers. The consent that consumates the act, it is not as trashy as you might think. The act that opens for another act. The act inside of her. It is the prologue to them. It could be the closing of one act and the opening of another.
One character leaves the play and the two major players are now one. The minor understudy has now risen to the part of lead. The part rises as they shed off the sins of the father. The sins of the mother. Sex is nothing if you are not thinking. It becomes trashy shit. It becomes fucking and you two become fuckers breeding little fuckers. You might as well drink your own semen through a straw while you masterbate as that is what you are doing to someone else when you do it without love. The sex borderlines on rape. It’s society’s great night out. The morning glory is a brief reminder as you try to forget about it with a pathetic fizzy drink.
An antiacid that won’t be able to disolve the life you may have in your belly at the moment. A life that is somthing else at the moment. It is life as you are now. Remembering how much of a little shit you were when you were young now you will have to look after one. Then there will be the thought that there will be that part of him. The half that had left you for somthing else. Let alone a part of himself.
So the Woman stays. Keeps the child. Treats it as her own. The child enters the world. A refugee from birth. A half-orphan from an opiate long long ago. Alien to others, as other children have Mummys and Daddys you have just the one.
You have created a Societal Monster. The world is full of them. They are the bastards of the world. The back page that’s all entity but we all avoid the tale. Like the back page it will always catch up to us.