I tell you something about the digital revolution. I sit every day about 8 hours on a chair staring at a screen, moving only my two lower arms barely, hands, fingers, eyes, and mainly my left part of my brain, because the right is already rotten, starved to death, before it was poisoned and stomped in the ground with a huge dildo. 8 hours. Excluding the hours I spend explaining my clients about finding their true why, why they do what they do, authenticity buzzwords these days, and entrepeneurs who are engaged, believe in their own idea that it could save the world, change the world at least, at least change the bank balance. I am basically coaching soldiers. I also drink coffee. Not sure how many. Sometimes I forget to eat. I am sweating. When the phone rings I don’t pick up I am afraid I will yell at the person on the other side – I am so far away. The sweat depending on the factor of stress and existential fear escalates sometimes, like playing at stock market – a flesh trade. Therefore, I get pimples on my ass. As this would not be a protest worth enough, right there, where eras of literature gave free rein to their poetic spunk, the sweaty delta, or more the sweaty perpendicular, where the back slowly ascends up the ass, but more in the center, so actually no ascending, more going downhole, underneath the frenzy sacral nerve like a vein of gold, and groaning… so right there I have this area of corneal, horny skin. When I get tired or just loose interest, which happens these days minimum 8 hours multiplied 60 and that again with 60 and I am bored already, but what happens is, I slide down the chair, and this is where I get fucked, during I am resting, right on this spot, I take a rest, for a while, until it gets too uncomfortable and my body yells at me to fucking stand to attention, until then right there on the edge of awakening, I can measure how the system fucks me, in horny skin, the proof of every single moment of my digital fucking real slavery, which everyone calls also work, because it’s shorter, or even career, still shorter, and more arousing to remember. Right on this spot the pressure to achieve, the constant fear of failure, the pleasure of achievement, the joy of success, and all the illusions and other lies about it, culminate, in churlish manners. Rubbing. And rubbing, relentless and mean, just childishly mean as only humans can be, of course. This is my fuck point. Where is yours?