"Sex, like most exploits, is pointless exercise. Rubbing, friction, moisture, effort, for one moment of pure joy? Not worth it. In this universe without end, nothing we do counts."
He wrote it, then stood. He looked. True? Yes. Nice? No. He wondered when he broke, when he fell, when the shroud covered his soul. Who listens to people in modern times? He looked down, then up to the writing.
"It's over," he whispered softly into nothingness.
No one replied. Silence reigned. He left. It's finished. Finished? He felt finished. He shut the door. It closed firmly, like periods end sentences.