It's raining today, perfect for doing something... damp. At the library, I spotted a bespectacled guy deeply engrossed in Kant's 'Critique of Pure Reason.' I told him to close the book, walk to the deepest corner of the stacks, unbuckle his belt, and use that rock-hard, throbbing rod to pierce the pages one by one. He did it, his expression as focused as if he were defending a doctoral thesis. The sound of the spine cracking mixed with his muffled gasps became the perfect white noise for a rainy day. Afterwards, he straightened his clothes, put the semen-soaked book back on the shelf, and continued to the next chapter. Knowledge? Desire? The boundaries are always ones I draw myself. This feeling is more absolute than Kant's categorical imperative.