He knows the hole. The gap, the lack, the wound that will not heal, the deafening howl that will not be stilled. He knows the whole for its absence. For its lie. The body’s ache, the cock’s strain. And all the counterfeit promises that can be whispered to it. This is it. This is the real thing. This is enough. She is enough. She will be everything. She will eclipse the stark noon of desire.
Each time he lets his body sucker him into the false hope of her fleshy house, he leaves wanting to burn it down. Because he knew before he entered her. And, once again, he has done it anyway.
There is no Woman, only phantasms of comfort or ecstasy, innocence or abomination. Sometimes all at once. Too much and still not enough.
Hence the wrecking ball.