Something is wrong with the man on the stool. He is ill-looking and sweaty and saliva drools in a rope from his lip. He’s having a fit, a shit. No, he’s wanking. Some people guide their children out. Some seem scared. I am laughing. He is male alienation, the body as stain, the self-fulfilling product of unwelcome sexuality. Eyes-shut, one-way desire in a forgotten punters’ dungeon. The least objectified and least sexualised section of society, the straight male, rendered disabled by a never-ending orgasm that has been both keeping him alive and killing him for a thousand years.

There’s a lot about the body and freedom, limits and transcendence at Goldsmiths. The image as a trap. Delicate, surreal BDSM. Lauren Connors’ “The Cult of St Lucia” recreates a stripper’s dressing room so directly it feels transporting. You sit amid the sad, red swill of adult living. The tongs, thongs, tarot cards and KitKat wrappers, an absent dancer working away beyond the walls. Sensing them, as the devout would sense God.

Pastel satyrs, indoor sand banks. Someone asking themselves why we cannot take a satisfying photograph of waves unless they are crashing on rocks. Why we cannot adequately freeze intensive difference. Someone following me around, learning ‘Hamlet’ aloud. I’m like FFS. What’s it all about, Horatio? The perverse family, mortality, the avoidance of destiny.

Camberwell art college is big and messy, unreconstructed, dedicated. The sculpture is usually exquisite, and the restoration and conservation MA has a quiet dignity to it (they’ve been cleaning up and rebinding some of Sigmund Freud’s ethnological prints). The graphics department have been re-imagining game theory. “Games have taught us to bankrupt, dominate and overthrow your opponent.” Tell it like it is.

Intensive similarity and mutuality. You as me. Territory-free. Conceptual art/video game crossover. Further body and freedom questions. Rooms which promise full personal autonomy and offer only old porn and a mattress filled with squeaky toys. Good for turning insomnia into comedy, I guess. Although still, technically speaking, insomnia. Fear and loathing on wall-sized projector slides. The pedestrian, never-ending clunk of self-talk.