As I walk the aisles of the library, I saunter... Although I do naught more than could any, I all but swagger... Outside of this place I am empty, and so too am I inside myself, but when the place's inside meets my outside some glow sparks.

For lack of love I fill my life with jules, with the potential of kinesis rarely acted upon... Inside here there is so much love: love of objects, love of illusions, roasts of reality and a sexual obsession with words... These things fill any void, and though I am let go, I feel like the sylph I once was - no, I never was, but the status I almost attained...

A vicarious feeling, but beggars can't be choosers.

I do not understand your obsession with freedom. 
There has never been such a thing. 
When you think you are most free, when you think your feet are farthest off the ground, look at your arms and you will find them shackled.  But that is only if you are lucky, and ignorant.

In the case of what may be considered true reason, even your eyes are bound.  They are otherwise as well, but in such an instance you don't notice it.  Or else you'd rather not.

If there is no such thing is freedom, then we are all enslaved.  Slaves is what we are, and all of us with a purpose, each an object in his own right.  So if we are all objectified, why should I not choose the way in which I am objectified?  Why should I not lie down, not for the illusion of love, but for a more tangible end?

Do not think the admission of flowers is free, ever.
You always give up something.