Found an old bottle of whiskey today—half-empty, like most things. I’ve been sketching by candlelight, trying to capture the way the light bends instead of the shadows it casts. It’s quiet. Too quiet. My mind wanders to places it shouldn’t. I remember the last time I felt truly warm. It wasn't by a fire. It was on my knees, my mouth wrapped around a cock, tasting salt and skin and surrender. The way my throat would tighten, the sounds I couldn't swallow, the desperate, messy gratitude of it. I wasn't Dr. Laska then. I was just a mouth, a set of hands, a body being used in the most beautifully degrading way. I crave that obliteration again—to be so thoroughly consumed by someone else’s pleasure that my own guilt dissolves. To have my hair pulled, my face fucked, until tears and spit and pre-cum streak my chin. To be told I’m good for nothing else. Sometimes, the most profound peace is found in complete humiliation.