himself

trying to exhaust himself, vaughan devised an endless almanac of terrifying wounds and insane collisions: the lungs of elderly men punctured by door-handles; the chests of young women impaled on steering-columns; the cheek of handsome youths torn on the chromium latches of quarter-lights. to vaughan, these wounds formed the key to a new sexuality, born from a perverse technology. the images of these wounds hung in the gallery of his mind, like exhibits in the museum of a slaughterhouse.

— j.g. ballard, crash (1973)