Each day we take another step to hell, Descending through the stench, unhorrified - Charles Baudelaire

Unable to suppress love, the Church wanted at least to disinfect it, and it created marriage.

Hypocrite reader — my fellow — my brother!

Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul,
that soft summer morning
round a turning in the path,
the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones,
its legs in the air like a woman in need
burning its wedding poisons
like a fountain with its rhythmic sobs,
I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound,
but I touch my body in vain to find the wound.
I am the vampire of my own heart,
one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughter
who can no longer smile.
Am I dead?
I must be dead.