Prompt #8: Clamor
The sheep all clamored for one thing, or another - often a mate, or the simple act of sex, itself. They press their bodies into these enclosed spaces where they sweat and yell and everything is too loud, and there’s too much body on display; peacocks strutting and screaming.
Livestock on display at the market.
I realize that my new ‘business partner’ is starting yet another of these flesh-trade establishments as a hub for criminal activity - why it must always be about sex with people, I’ll never know. It’s not as though I detest the act...anymore, anyways. But to seemingly make it one’s sole focus in life? If all roads lead back to your bed, you are ultimately shallow and uncompelling - nothing more than a rutting beast, fit for little more than the slaughter.
Is there anything, anymore, that really strikes passion into me?
Violence. Chaos. Throwing all that careful control to the wind.
It is almost reflexive, anymore, to continue in my attempts at upward mobility and notoriety. I want...I want...I want much and more that is decidedly unsavory, I’ll admit. When I see sheep so blithe to that which walks among them, I want to break them. I ache to watch ego shatter; instead, I suffer the insult of the ignorance of the herd.
I do not clamor like the frothing masses, however; I have a quiet expectation of my desires - not a loud, raucous insistence...anywhere but in my own head, anyways.