You are aroused to passion. At last, satiated and weeping, you collapse in a heaving heap. Then you sit down at your computer and start to write. The doors of perception are ripped of their rusting hinges and smashed into worm-ridden matchwood by a barbarian horde of Viking berzerker skum who stomp into the darkest corners of the human soul, howling like crazed wolves, roaring like priapic mastadons, screaming like blood crazed bull chimps and shitting in your spanking new trainers like naughty puppies.
All cultural references are redundant.
It's like being butt-fucked to a bloody pulp by a detective chief constable with a hammer head shark for a cock. It's like wading knee deep through a sea of used condoms casually tossed aside by the Ghaddafi trained lesbian terror squads whose mission it is to inject infected semen into the arteries of the common mind. But basically, chum, it's about love.