There were no costumes. The filming took place in a midnight rest area toilet. Fog. No cops. Just us. Break his arm, and I will grab the gun while he is focused on the break. A compound fracture would be best. The script was born of rage. Autistic and the artifice of regret. I see the bone of rot and it is loneliness. I see your death. I know your death. I know that instant when you realize you have let it disappear and it goes dragging its slow length along its veins, easily sets out to run. And loses. Loss is what Homo sapiens are built of. The AIDS Caves were at one time, trucks. You paid to go into the truck. It was about the coin. Your ability to ejaculate was on you. You knew right upfront who those people who owned the semi-trucks were as criminal after pausing at the doors of memory, riot, and the confusion that he is only fucking me in the ass because he loved me inside the eye of the cave. Anyone left alive would be pushed around in the dark by someone you cannot see, but is there against your chest with a shoving obsession for release and pain. That is the significance of Homo sapiens himself and all his other second selves. A juxtaposition of historical rhetoric tries its best to be confined (it’s scary out there) to Sadomasochism: True Confessions.