Selling your soul to the plumber

Welcoming the world into your arms, the fire in your gut goes out like a sunset filmed at half speed. The wallowing you felt previously is now made of milk, scintillatingly vapid in its esoteric privacy. Moving diagonally your steps take on a lurid staccato gait, drifting between eloquence and zoology. Soon, as with all such things, the penultimate moment will pass. Let it go.