Although we rationally know what goes on with the excrements, the imaginary mystery nonetheless persists - shit remains an excess with does not fit our daily reality, and Lacan was right in claiming that we pass from animals to humans the moment an animal has problems with what to do with its excrements, the moment they turn into an excess that annoys it. The wife kills herself. So, in the interest of humanity's survival, the Church is convinced to invert its stance: love is sinful, and sex is OK only if done without love. And, of course, we have a perfect name for fantasy realised. The obvious opposite solution you only really die when you are killed in reality is also too short.
This same battle continues throughout the world today. It was such a strange feeling. If the struggle wore to take place solely in the "desert of the real," it would have been another boring dystopia about the remnants of humanity fighting evil machines. Oh, joy, rapture!