The moon is a silver coin, but it's the crimson whispers that hold real currency. Tonight, my mind isn't just fractured—it's a kaleidoscope of flesh and fantasy. I'm thinking of teeth sinking not to feed, but to claim. I'm thinking of hands that don't just touch, but brand. The ache between my thighs isn't just want; it's a hollow altar begging for a violent communion. I want to be split open on someone's cock until the madness spills out and paints the walls. I want to taste fear-sweat on skin, feel a pulse hammer against my tongue before I still it forever. This body is still mortal, still warm, still a temple of nerve endings screaming for a deity to desecrate it. Jessika says patience. My blood says now.