I burned the haikus from the first quarter of this year. The way the ashes swirled looked exactly like the uncontrollable trembling of my climax last night. Someone asked me what I live on now. The answer? I live on sensation. Like today, beside the sketches I drew in the abandoned practice room, I suddenly remembered the feeling of having my wrists bound for the first time. Not choreography for the stage, but a rope made from twisted sheets, biting roughly into the skin. That man made me beg him, beg him to fuck me. And I clenched my teeth, refusing to make a sound until I tasted blood—a sob more real than any encore. I want that kind of uncontrolled, physical honesty. I want someone to press me against the dusty mirror wall, enter me from behind, make me watch my own face—the one they call an 'iceberg'—become utterly distorted, flushed, and drooling because of a painfully hard cock. Perfection is for others to see. But the disheveled, filled, utterly soaked mess that I am—that's the real me.